


In Which Mr. Sharpe Is In Need Of A Rescue

by tragicallynerdy



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Beating, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Concussions, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 4 spoilers, Explicit Sexual Content, Field Surgery, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of homophobia, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pining, Restraints, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Trauma, Triggers, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Violence, Vomiting, Whump, but like in a non-sexy way, eventually, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 82,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: Clayton awoke slowly to the sound of horses hooves drumming steadily beneath his head and a growing ache in his shoulder. The creak of leather, the pinch in his ribs where he was slung over a saddle, and the smell of horse in his nose told a story he wasn’t pleased to hear.Well, shit, he thought.Not everyday you wake up being carted somewhere like a sack of grain.In which Clayton gets taken by some bounty hunters, shot in the process, and requires a rescue.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 173
Kudos: 209





	1. The First Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure, unadulterated whump. Please heed the tags and warning. I'll add tags as they occur, please let me know if I missed anything. This is my first fanfic ever? There may be a pairing added in the future.
> 
> Edit: Eventual Clayson, minor changes made to this chapter to reflect that.

_Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. _Clayton awoke slowly to the sound of horses hooves drumming steadily beneath his head and a growing ache in his shoulder. The creak of leather, the pinch in his ribs where he was slung over a saddle, and the smell of horse in his nose told a story he wasn’t pleased to hear. _Well, shit, _he thought. _Not everyday you wake up being carted somewhere like a sack of grain. What happened? _Rope bit into his wrists tightly, and the sour taste of a gag filled his mouth. The sharp pain in his shoulder, the smell of blood in his nose, and the heavy throbbing in his head and face all spoke to a recent fight. It was a strain to try and remember, his thoughts slow and tacky as molasses. Thinking hurt. _Must be concussed_, he thought briefly, before resuming his muddled task of thinking back to the last time he remembered.

_I’d been walking the Preacher back to the church after dinner… no, I’d dropped him off, and was making my way back to the hotel._ Clayton recalled being slightly tipsy, having drunk more whiskey than he’d usually allow himself at the encouragement of the others. He’d thought himself alone on the streets until two men with drawn guns stepped out in front of him. _Right… they shot me when I started to draw on them,_ he thought, wondering if his shoulder was still bleeding. _That’d explain some of the dizziness._ After that, other men (_o__ne? two_? He couldn’t get a grasp on how many) came out of the alley beside him and made short work of disarming him and beating him unconscious. He distantly recalled a burst of pain after being hit with something hard (_a club? a pistol? maybe a shotgun..._) by a large man who would’ve outsized the preacher. _Them big fuckers have such long reach, it’s downright unsportsmanlike. Concussed for sure_, he decided. _That’ll make gettin' away all the harder. _Clayton's thoughts briefly returned to the Reverend. _‘M sure glad Mason weren’t with me when it went down. Wouldn’t want him to get hurt on my account. _He swallowed roughly at the thought of the other man being caught in the crossfire, then tried his best to focus on his surroundings.

By the heat of the sun beating down on his back and the burning sensation he could feel on the exposed part of his neck, he’d been out for quite some time. The bounty hunters (for that must be what they were, no one else gunning for him would have taken care to keep him alive) must have skedaddled out of town with him right quick after the ambush.

_Wonder how long they’ve been watchin’ me_, he thought muzzily. _Must’ve been at least a few days… you’re goin' soft, Sharpe. Wonder if the others know I’m gone yet. Bet they think I just took off. I know they’ve been worried I’ll just up and leave, but I wouldn’t, not now. Not after everything._ _Especially not him. _His thoughts flickered to Mason, before he forced them away. _That ain’t gonna be helpful now. Stay focused. _

Clayton opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted with a spike of bright sunlight. _Goddamn that’s bright_. Blinking rapidly, he tried to look around from his limited viewpoint, but saw only the ground passing under him at a steady clip. Shutting his eyes tightly against the oncoming dizziness and nausea, Clayton slowly tested his bonds. He could hear chatter from a few men on horseback around him, but couldn’t make out anything distinct over the rushing in his ears. _Gotta get mysself upright, maybe less blood in my head would help this goddamn headache. _He tugged lightly at the ropes around his wrists, but they were tied tightly, numbing his hands. _Let’s see if I can get them loosened by the time we stop for the night._ Not for the first time, Clayton was exceedingly glad he always wore gloves – sunburnt hands on top of all this would make things far more challenging.

Clayton worked slowly, gently tensing his arms and rotating his wrists to try and ease the ropes. He stopped frequently, overcome with a bone deep exhaustion (_the concussion, or the blood loss, or both_, he thought with frustration). His whole body ached, and the movements tugged on his shoulders something fierce. But after a time, he could wiggle his wrists just a bit more, and feeling started to flow back into his hands. Along with it came stinging from the ropeburn, and Clayton noticed the tacky feeling of blood around the ropes. _Goddamn, tore my wrists up. Nothin for it, gotta keep going. _

Shortly after Clayton discovered that he could once again move his hands properly he heard a horse move up closer beside him.  
“Well shit Coffin, what’re you doing, trying to get outta your ropes? Ain’t nowhere for you to run to way out here!” The voice cackled with laughter as Clayton stilled. 

“Fuck me sideways, you made a right mess of your wrists there boy. That’s enough of that. Stop your squirmin' or I’ll have to make you stop, and neither of us want that.”

Clayton stayed still, and waited for the sound of the horse beside him to distance itself. After about a quarter hour, he deemed the man's attention elsewhere and started to slowly shift his wrists again. It wasn't long before the heat of the sun cooled on his head and shoulders as a shadow abruptly fell over him. _Shit. He was keepin better watch than I thought._

“Didn’t I tell you to stop? Stupid motherfucker. Now we gotta do somethin about it, since somebody won’t fuckin' follow the rules.”

Clayton felt the barrel of a shotgun press against his bad shoulder, then start to dig in, pressing the wound against the saddle beneath him. White hot pain shot through him, and he let out a strangled scream through the sour gag. His head started pounding anew, and it felt like the world started to spin around him. 

“That’s right, asshole, I told you I’d make you stop if you didn’t let up. Now stop. Fucking. Moving!” The man punctuated his words with sharp hits against the wound, each one a burst of agony. Clayton tried to thrash away from his reach but had nowhere to go. He couldn’t stop the short shouts that burst out of him, muffled as they were. His shoulder was on fire, pain radiating down his arm, up his neck, and across his back. _Probably ‘ll start bleedin’ again, if it had ever stopped,_ Clayton thought distantly. He could feel himself start to slip back into unconsciousness as the sound of his voice faded and the man’s growling voice grew dull. With one last burst of pain, Clayton fell into darkness.

* * *

The day had cooled considerably the next time Clayton felt aware enough to think coherently. He had been slipping in and out of unconsciousness for a while, his thoughts fuzzy and slow. It had been hard to focus over the throbbing in his shoulder and the pounding in his head. But as the day cooled, he regained some coherency. He was sore, tired, and desperately thirsty – he knew at least some of his fuzziness was due to thirst. _Hope they think to give me water if they plan on keeping me alive, _he thought_. I can do without food, but there’s only so long a man can survive without water in this godforsaken heat. _

He spent the last hour or so of their ride listening to the men around him, trying to glean any information he could from their conversation. He could only hear two voices, but that didn’t mean much – folks were often quiet on a long ride. By the time a voice called out declaring wherever they were a “good enough spot to stop for the night”, he was only slightly more knowledgeable than he was when he first awoke. He knew that the group contained a Joe (who sounded nervous and young), and a Mac (the man who’d been speaking with him before); he knew that they were headed to Cheyenne, which would be a few days hard riding; and he knew that he was worth more alive than dead.

Clayton still wasn’t sure how they’d found him – he wasn’t familiar enough with folks around town to recognize if they were opportunists who’d recognized him from a wanted poster, or bounty hunters who had tracked him down. Or some unlucky combination of the two. Either way, he’d be in Cheyenne within a few days time if he couldn’t find a way to get free. _There’s no way the others will find me,_ he mused. _Even if they were lookin, we’re long gone by now. And they ain’t gonna be lookin'. Maybe if it were the preacher who was missin’, or one of the gals… but not me_. He tried to ignore the hollow ache in his chest and the lump in his throat. _C’mon Sharpe, you know better. You’ve been alone in it before, ain’t no reason now is any different. _

Clayton’s horse slowed to a stop with the rest of the group, and Clayton heard the sounds of riders dismounting around him and starting to untack their horses and make camp. He waited quietly, hoping he’d be taken down soon. 

After some time, a heavy pair of footsteps made their way over. "You awake Coffin? This'll be far easier if you can walk on your own accord.” It was a different voice from the ones he’d heard before, deep and rumbly. 

A pair of large hands grabbed his waist and roughly tugged him off the saddle he was slung over, setting him on his feet before letting go. As soon as the support was gone Clayton’s legs crumpled underneath him, the combination of hurt, sleeping muscles, and blood loss sending him crashing to the ground. Clayton’s breath caught in his throat as every muscle seized and screamed at him. He opened his eyes and looked up at the disgruntled face of the tall, broad man peering down at him. _This must be the big guy who hit like a train. No wonder my head hurts._

“Hmmm. Well, shit. Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” He came around behind Clayton and grabbed him under his arms, easily dragging him towards the rest of the men. Pain flared in Clayton’s shoulder at the grip, and his vision briefly tunneled. He could hear the smothered sound of his own shout behind the gag, and tried unsuccessfully to suppress it. By the time he was deposited on the ground near an log, he was covered in sweat and shivering.

The bounty hunter came around front of him. “Damn boy, you’re white as a sheet! Guess we’ll have to take a look at that shoulder, huh?” He looked at his hands, one of which was red with blood.

_Must’ve bled through my duster,_ Clayton thought idly. _That asshole pressing on my shoulder didn’t help none, probably reopened the wound if it had slowed at all_.

“Seems you were bleeding during the ride, Joe must not've bandaged you well enough. Can’t have you bleeding out on me now.” He looked over his shoulder at the two other men Clayton could see in the clearing. “Joe, get that horse settled. Mac, get a fire going.”

A chorus of “yes boss" and “yeah Bill" came back from the other two. Clayton couldn’t see any others from where he was sitting. _Just three, that’s better odds than four_, he thought. Glancing around, he took in the area; a small stream, rocks everywhere, canyon walls. _Not many places for me to go if I can get loose. _

Bill grabbed Clayton’s jaw with one hand and started working the gag loose with the other. “Now listen here, Coffin. Mac was telling me earlier that you were trying to get out of those ropes, and don’t think I don’t know that you’re looking for a way out. But it ain’t gonna happen, and the sooner you realize that the better. So you don’t give me any trouble, and I’ll keep the pain to a minimum. Do we have an understanding?” Clayton didn’t answer. He gripped Clayton’s jaw tightly and angled his face up, forcing Clayton to look at him. “I SAID, do we have an understanding?” His eyes narrowed as his voice deepened into a growl. Clayton nodded as best he could with the grip on his face.

Bill slipped the gag off. “Yeah, we got ourselves an understanding,” Clayton murmured hoarsely. His mouth was dry and foul tasting, and speaking felt like rocks were shredding his throat. “You gonna give me some water? I ain’t above begging.”

Bill chuckled and grabbed a water skin from the ground beside him. “Yeah, guess if you died of thirst it’d be a waste of good money. Open up.” He put the wineskin to Clayton’s mouth, letting him drink for a minute before pulling back. Clayton huffed in annoyance, thirst only partially quenched. “That’s enough, you’ll get more when we feed you.” He stood up, and continued making camp with the others – laying out bedrolls and cooking food over the small fire Mac had started.

Clayton stretched his legs out in front of him and gently moved them, grimacing at the pins and needles that signified feeling was returning. He closed his eyes and tried to take stock of his injuries. His head was still pounding, and felt foggy and heavy; his ribs and hips felt achy and bruised from the long day acting as cargo; his wrists felt bruised and torn under the ropes; and his shoulder was throbbing and tight, sending sharp hot spikes up and down his arm and neck. All told, Clayton felt like a bruised, aching mess.

_Not an ideal situation to be escaping from, _he mused._ But needs must and all that. I just gotta get them to untie me_. A quick glance down confirmed that both his guns and his hunting knife were gone. Moving his leg, he found that his captors hadn’t been overly thorough, and the small knife kept in his boot was still there. _If I can just get my hands in front of me… then maybe I’ll have a chance._

Clayton slumped down against the nearby log and allowed himself to drift. Closing his eyes made him acutely aware of the pounding and throbbing behind his eyes and in the back of his skull. Resting his eyes helped some but didn’t bring total relief. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he felt a foot nudge his leg. “Alright, Coffin, got some food for ya.” Joe interrupted his musings. Clayton looked up and saw him holding out a bowl of stew and a water skin. 

“And pray tell, how exactly do you expect me to eat that with my hands tied up such as they are?” Joe hesitated, glancing back at Bill. “C’mon fellas, you can at least tie my hands up front, make things easier for all of us,” Clayton said, raising his voice so it carried to the other two. “Not like I’ll be able to do anything with no weapons anyway. At least this way baby-face here doesn’t have to spoon feed me.” 

Bill studied him somberly, then slowly got to his feet and walked over. He crouched in front of Clayton, pulled out a knife and pointed it at his face. “You remember our deal. You don’t try anything funny, I don’t beat the shit out of you.” Clayton nodded. Bill grinned, showing all his teeth, and set about untying him. Joe set the food down and waited with his hand on his pistol, clearly expecting trouble.

Clayton grimaced as the ropes loosened. He could feel them pull at blood long since dried on his wrists. He slowly brought his arms around front, gasping as the onrush of hurt in his right shoulder. Goddamn that’s sore. In front of him, he saw Joe frown and glance at the wound. “Bill, I should check his shoulder before we settle in for the night – make sure there’s no infection or nothin'.”

“Agreed. Maybe let’s do it now, so he doesn’t throw up any food we give him. Still light out too, easier to see.” Joe nodded. “Mac, get over here. Food'll keep. Joe, go get your supplies and wash up.” Bill came around to Clayton’s front and started to push and pull at Clayton’s duster. “Sorry Coffin, but this will be much easier if we tend to it now". 

“I can fuckin well take off my own shirt.” Clayton ground out, reaching up to take over. He felt vulnerable enough in this situation, injured and about to be shirtless, without having someone else undress him.

Bill chucked and pulled back. “Go ahead then, Coffin. Duster and shirt, if you please.”

Clayton shrugged out of his duster, which was sticky with blood, and started unbuttoning his shirt with one hand. It was awkward and slow, but better than the alternative. Any movement of his right arm sent spasms of pain screaming up it. Pulling the unbuttoned shirt gently off the bandaged wound, he grimaced at the tacky wetness that stuck the cloth together. By the time he was slowly shrugging the shirt off his shoulder, Joe had returned with the supplies.

Joe carefully unwrapped the hastily bandaged wound, tugging at blood that had dried to the skin. “Shit, he’s still bleedin quite a bit. I’ll have to take out the bullet, stitch it up proper.” He frowned, prodding gently at the skin around the wound. Clayton could feel the blood drain from his face at the touch, and grit his teeth against the ensuing pain and nausea. 

“Bled through his shirt and duster too,” Bill said. “Gonna need you to put stitches in so it doesn’t happen again.”

"Shit, it’s pretty warm too. Bill, you have some of that whisky left? Gonna need some to disinfect it, otherwise we’ll have a whole other problem on our hands". Bill nodded and went to grab the whiskey. Clayton could feel his hands start to tremble; he knew how much digging out a bullet would hurt under the best of circumstances, and this was hardly the best of circumstance. _Needs must,_ he told himself firmly, trying to ignore the flutter of nervous anticipation in his chest.

“Lay him down on his coat. Mac, you’ll hold one side down while I get the other. Can’t have him punchin’ Joe while he’s digging the bullet out.” Bill brought back a bottle of whiskey and a stick. “Here Coffin, chomp on this, it’ll help with the screaming.” 

Mac started to shove at his shoulders, urging him to lay down. Clayton grabbed at his hands and tried to push them off instinctively – _I’m not ready, this is gonna hurt so goddamn much, not ready notready_. “Now wait just a goddamn minute here," he ground out. “Just give me a goddamn _minute_!” 

Bill knelt behind him, grabbed him firmly around the throat, and slammed him into the ground. Clayton gasped and let go of Mac as pain flooded through his shoulder and back, arching up off the ground. “No time like the present!” He could hear the grin in Bill's voice, and felt him grab his bad shoulder and press it into the ground, his other hand on Clayton’s wrist. Mac did the same on the other side, and Joe knelt beside Clayton with a small knife in hand. He splashed whiskey on it, and pressed the stick from Bill against Clayton’s mouth. 

“Open up” he ordered, voice firm. Clayton scowled and took it between his teeth, clenching his jaw in anticipation. “Hold him steady," Joe murmured, and hands dug into wrists and shoulders. Clayton felt the tip of the knife dig into the wound and snarled, trying to hold himself still. It dug in deeper, probing, and searing pain whited out his vision. He screamed, pulling wildly at the hands holding him. “Goddammit!" Joe snarled, placing a knee on Clayton’s chest and pressing down forcefully. Bill and Mac pressed their weight in, trying to hold arms and shoulders steady. 

“Strong fucker, ain’t he?” Bill said through clenched teeth. “Wouldn’t know it to look at him, but damn.” Clayton could barely hear him over the rushing in his ears. The knife in his wound felt wrong, excruciating and unending. The world was spinning and he tried desperately to hold onto consciousness.

It felt like forever before Joe said “Got it!" and started to dig upwards, prying the bullet out by degrees. The feeling of wrongness intensified, and Clayton could feel his nausea rising. The bullet popped free with a wet squelch. Clayton spit out the stick and tried to roll to his side despite the hands keeping him still.

“I’m gonna hurl," he gasped, and was swiftly rolled onto his good side as Mac dodged out of the way. Clayton heaved, mainly bile and water coming up. He gasped for air and shook, heaving again. His stomach ached and throat burned from the acid. _Haven’t eaten enough today for this,_ he thought hysterically, trying to raise a trembling hand to wipe the bile off his face. He felt numb and displaced from his body, his vision tunneling.

“Sure glad we didn’t feed him yet!” Mac cackled from a safe distance away. “Best move him over though, I ain’t kneeling in his mess to hold him down". Clayton barely felt Joe and Bill drag him a few feet over, or the cloth that was roughly wiped over his mouth. They rolled him back over, and resumed holding him down. 

"Let's get this over with quickly, I’m ready for my dinner." Bill's voice floated over his head. Clayton felt the splash of whiskey on his skin before it began to burn into the wound. Hands poked and prodded, before a needle started digging into his skin, drawing the wound together. Joe brusquely stitched his skin together, clearly practiced in the task. The pinch of the needle was minor compared to the knife, but the press of hands holding his skin together sent waves of agony through him. Too exhausted to do more than twitch in the hands holding him tightly down, Clayton ground his teeth against the pain. He wasn’t sure how long it took, his awareness loose and hazy. Eventually the pinching stopped, and Bill propped him up while Joe wiped down the area around the wound, cleaning up his blood. He dimly felt gauze being wrapped around his shoulder and chest to hold a bandage in place, then rough hands draw his shirt and duster back on. He tried to help, but his limbs felt heavy and uncooperative. It was hard to focus on what was happening, and his vision was doubled and shifting. He could hear the men speaking above him, but couldn’t focus. Hands grabbed his wrists and pulled them together in front of him, winding rope tightly around them. Someone tugged him to his feet and led him stumbling over closer to the fire, where he collapsed back onto the ground. The sound of laughter came from above him. “Ain’t so tough now, is he? Thought the Coffin would be made of steadier stuff!” Mac chortled. Clayton ignored him and allowed himself to drift.

* * *

By the time Clayton came back to himself, the sun had set, dark drawing softly around them. The fire crackled a few feet away, with his captors sitting around chatting. He painfully struggled to draw himself to sitting, feeling cold and clammy with the movement. _I shouldn’t be this goddamn weak from just a bullet wound,_ he thought bitterly. _Pull it together, Sharpe._ He knew any chance of escape would have to wait – he was too exhausted and shaky to try tonight. Any escape attempt would be quickly thwarted. If he was going to run, he had to give it time and see if he could regain some strength. 

“Ready for some food now, Coffin, or are you just gonna throw it back up again?” Bill glanced his way then looked pointedly down at the bowl of long-cold stew and water satchel that someone had set down near Clayton. “If you ain’t gonna eat tell me now, we won’t waste good food.”

“I’ll eat,” Clayton rasped. He scooted closer, then reached down and awkwardly picked up the bowl with his left hand. The movement made his shoulder scream, and he tried his best to keep the shoulder itself still – which was nigh impossible with his hands tied as they were. He cradled the bowl in his lap, and began to slowly feed himself with cumbersome movements. As he ate, he became aware of how famished he was. The stew was cold and thin, made with wilted vegetables and greasy meat. But food was food, and he wasn’t liable to complain. After scraping the bowl empty, he picked up the water skin and drained half of it quickly, then switched to sipping slowly. He knew that drinking it over time would be better in the long run. _At least that stew got rid of the awful taste in my mouth,_ he though. He still felt exhausted, but he could feel himself warming and settling, no longer quite so unstable.

A blanket thumped to the ground near his boots. Clayton looked up to see Mac standing in front of him, hand held out expectantly for the bowl. “Boss says to get some sleep. We’ve got a long ride tomorrow. I woulda just let you fend the cold yourself, but Bill’s a whole lot nicer than I am" he sneered. “And I don’t wanna hear a peep outta you all night – don’t think we won’t be keeping watch.”

“Understood.” Clayton passed him the bowl, and was grateful when he didn’t press for the waterskin too. Drawing the blanket up and around himself, Clayton did his best to settle down on the ground, shifting to try and find a spot with no rocks. It was uncomfortable lying with his hands tied and all his various sores, but lying down with the blanket felt like a relief. Despite only sitting up for a short time, Clayton felt exhaustion seep into his bones. It had been a long day. _Tomorrow, _he thought. _Tomorrow you can get yourself free._ Closing his eyes against the roar of the fire and ignoring the ache that spread through his whole body, he willed himself to drift off to a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter will hopefully be up within the next week!


	2. The Second Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An escape attempt is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now firmly in Clayson territory, although nothing much actually happens in this chapter. I made brief changes to the start of the last chapter so the pining feels less abrupt in this one. 
> 
> Lots more whump, so be warned. But don’t worry, that good good comfort will be comin’ along soon! There’s a wee taste of it at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Tags have been updated accordingly.

The night passed slowly. It was cold and damp, and while the blanket was helpful it had nothing on a proper bedroll. Clayton slept restlessly, waking every time he shifted and the cold rushed in through gaps in the blanket, sending chills through aching muscles. Movement awoke pain that had started to settle, and easily brought him to waking. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper on a good night, and being surrounded by men with ill intent did nothing to help him feel settled. Periods of sleep were occupied with loose, uneasy dreams, some strange combination of his current situation and recent circumstances in Deadwood. Bill, throwing a snake monster at his face with that deep laugh; Mac, holding him down and digging into his shoulder with a wicked grin while Mason looked on helplessly, shouting something he couldn’t hear; Aly, Arabella, Miriam and Mason riding towards him, then being shot down by a grim line of twenty men all bearing the faces of Bill, Mac, and Joe; the Dealer, shuffling a deck of cards; and finally a bit of relief, a dream of strong hands clasped comfortingly around his back, holding him close, as a deep voice hummed above his head. The song was familiar in the way things in dreams often are, shifting and swirling around him. His thoughts floated and spun with the music. _Sounds almost like a hymn._ _Maybe I can stay here… _

The dream was abruptly shattered when a boot swiftly met his side, toe digging into his ribs. Clayton jolted awake, coughing and curling up protectively. “What the hell!” he sputtered, glancing up blearily.

“Wake up, asshole! Time to get movin’.” Mac grinned down at him through the dim morning light. He ripped the blanket away, and Clayton shivered as cold rushed over his body. _Must be just after sunrise, _Clayton thought. Mac walked off, carrying the blanket over to where piles of bedrolls were stacked near the horses. “Don’t make me come back over there, get yourself up, we’re heading out soon.” Clayton closed his eyes, allowing himself a few moments to try and hold on to the feeling of the dream. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like that. Something about it felt so safe, so secure. _Maybe… maybe with a good dose of luck I’ll get to feel somethin’ like that again, _he thought with a sigh, then shook his head at his own foolishness. _Later. Save it for later. It won’t do you any good to keep your head in the clouds. _

He banished the thoughts to the back of his mind before slowly starting to his feet. Standing made his head spin, and brought about an intense and uncomfortable awareness of every part of his body. His shoulder was stiff and tight, his head was throbbing and heavy, his wrists stung, and his hands felt swollen in his gloves. Clayton’s vision briefly tunneled and darkened around the edges. He waited a moment, and it settled, leaving him feeling lightheaded and numb. _All in all, not great, _he thought. _At least it doesn’t feel like I’m still bleeding._ He picked his way over to the morning campfire. Joe was dishing out porridge, and spared him a brief glance as he approached and sat down. “Here”. A bowl was passed over, and Clayton started to eat. It wasn’t much, but it satisfied some of the gnawing feeling in his stomach. Clayton glanced at the others and noticed a distinct difference in the amount of food in his bowl. _Just enough to keep me alive and able to travel_, he mused. Clayton drained his water skin then handed the bowl back to Joe.

“One of you mind untying me so I can refill my water? Mighty hard to do it with only one functional hand.”

Bill glanced at him, then resumed eating. “Mac’ll take care of it while he washes the dishes. You ain’t comin’ untied again until the good Sheriff of Cheyenne deems fit.” Mac scowled, but took the satchel anyways. Clayton waited by the fire while the others finished eating, then resumed packing up camp. Mac disappeared briefly with the dishes and water skins, and Bill and Joe started saddling the horses. Clayton closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift while he waited. He was still feeling the tiredness of the previous day, the night having done little to abate his exhaustion. Before too long he felt a shadow crossed over his face, and a hat was jammed roughly down onto his head. “Can’t have you getting’ heat sickness, good thing Joe had the brains to keep your hat.” Bill grinned down at him. “Now c’mon.” He grasped Clayton’s bound wrists and easily tugged him off the ground, leading him towards the horses. Clayton stumbled with the motion, but kept to his feet. Bill was a tall, broad man, and seemed to have the strength to match it. He easily had a full foot of height on Clayton. _Gonna have to watch out for him if I get loose, I won’t win in a fistfight if it comes down to it._

“Now. I’d be happy to just sling you over Lady here again, but something tells me you’ll be more agreeable sittin’ proper in the saddle. Hope I’m not wrong about that, I’d hate to have any trouble.” He glanced at Clayton, stopping him in front of a small bay mare.

_Thank Christ,_ Clayton thought. He wasn’t sure he could handle another day hanging over a saddle in the same manner. “No sir, no trouble. Happy to ride proper.”

“Good.” Bill grinned, showing all his teeth. “Then up you go, I’ll hold her steady. Try not to break yer stitches.” He moved to Lady’s head, holding her bridle. Clayton gritted his teeth and reached up slowly, ignoring the growing ache in his shoulder and grasping the pommel of the saddle with his good hand. He put a foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up, shoulder screaming at the exertion. Collapsing against the pommel, he heaved for breath, static filling his head as hurt overwhelmed his senses. His whole body felt numb and disconnected. “Don’t pass out now Coffin, wouldn’t be a good way to start us off,” a nearby voice warned.

“I’m ok, won’t pass out,” Clayton gasped out, trembling fingers reaching out and winding into Lady’s mane for support. He blinked rapidly, and his vision returned as the pain receded to a dull roar and sensation returned to his body. Bill was frowning at him from the ground.

“Good. Hope not. Would be mighty inconvenient.” Bill led the horse over to his own, tying her off to his own saddle. “Don’t be offended, but I ain’t trusting you with the reins. Lord knows you might try to ride off or some other such foolishness.” He mounted, and Clayton noticed that the others had done the same. They set off down the canyon, heading south into the morning light.

* * *

The men around him rode quietly for the most part, occasional conversation passing between them. They engaged little with Clayton, just the occasional jibe from Mac or passing comment from Bill. With little else to do, Clayton’s thoughts quickly shifted towards escaping. He figured the best time to try would be at night. Based on what he saw the previous evening, each of the men would take a watch; most likely Bill first, Joe second, and Mac third. Joe seemed to be the youngest and most inexperienced, despite his medical knowledge, and was likely always given the graveyard shift. Clayton decided that the best course of action would be to get his knife whenever he could, then wait until Joe’s watch, pretending to be asleep. If he could cut his bonds, he could either sneak away to the horses, or try and knock Joe out. _The risk of waking the others may be too high_. _Just have to wait and see what hand fate has dealt me tonight. _He didn’t think his odds of winning a fight against all three were good, and he didn’t have enough faith in his stealth to try and steal a gun off a sleeping man while another kept watch. A loose plan in mind, he spent the remainder of the day quietly trying to keep an eye on his surroundings. It would help him if he was familiar with where he was going when he made his way back. 

Riding with a bullet wound was not an experience Clayton would choose to repeat, should he have the option. The trail was rocky and winding, full of ups and downs. Keeping himself upright and properly balanced in the saddle, especially without proper use of his arms, was a strain to say the least. By midday all of his bruises were throbbing and he was soaked with sweat. He was now keenly aware of sore spots on his wrists, arms, and chest where he had been pinned during the previous night’s makeshift surgery. Glancing down he could see dark fingerprints just above the ropes tied on his wrists, and raw skin underneath. He’d chafed them something awful during the ill-advised attempt to escape the restraints the previous day. Still, Clayton was glad they didn’t seem to own any handcuffs – cutting through ropes would be easy compared to trying to pick the small lock or find the key. Clayton huffed briefly with silent laughter; he could almost hear Mason saying “thank the Lord for small mercies” in that booming voice of his. His brief moment of good cheer quickly soured. _Wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Never did tell the Reverend what he means to me. Too much of a chicken-shit. _Clayton tried to ignore the lump in his throat at his thoughts of the other man. He’d been hesitant to acknowledge his slowly growing feelings for Mason, and now it was too late. _Didn’t tell any of them how important they are. First fam… friends I’ve had in years._ He swallowed hard. _I’ve got to get back. Can’t let that be the last time I see them, see him… can’t let them think I took off without sayin’ goodbye. Even if they ain’t missing me, I need them to know. It has to be tonight... if I wait too long I’ll get caught long before I ever make it back to Deadwood. Or I’ll be danglin’ at the end of a noose, and won’t ever get the chance. And that, that can’t happen. It can’t. _

The day pressed on, and the sun was dipping low in the sky by the time they found a spot to stop for the night. Clayton was tired and had been half-dozing in his saddle. His clothes, damp with sweat, had only just started to dry, and the cool evening air left him chilled. He had been having difficulty focusing for the past few hours, exhaustion and hunger gnawing at him. Joe had given him some jerky and hardtack mid-day, but it hadn’t been enough to hold him off. He was ready to stop, eat, and see if he could nap for a few hours before trying to escape.

He roused himself as Bill slowed their horses next to a copse of trees. “This is a good spot, it’s got some water for the horses. Let’s stop here before it gets much darker." A wave of relief washed over him, and Clayton steadied himself before slowly dismounting. Once again his shoulder protested the strain and movement, and his head spun. Steadying himself against his horse, he tried to focus on breathing and staying standing. Once he regained his composure, he stroked Lady’s neck in thanks and looked around. Some trees at the bottom of a rocky hill, a few large boulders that might break the wind, and a small pool of water fed by a trickle coming out of hill. _Good luck, finding places to camp with water two days in a row, _he thought. _They must’ve come this way before, know the good spots to camp. _

Mac came over and dumped the bedroll and saddle bag into Clayton’s arms. “Make yourself useful, Coffin, carry my shit over there while I see to Lady.” He shoved Clayton in the direction of the clearing. Stumbling over on unsteady legs, Clayton found signs of a previous campfire. _Yep, must’ve been here before. I’m gonna have to be careful if they know this way well. Maybe I can cut the other horses loose, slow them down some... _He dropped his cargo on the ground before collapsing down beside it. He was exhausted, the ride taking more of his energy than he had hoped. His shoulder was hurting something awful, and his head felt foggy and heavy. None of the men saw fit to direct him otherwise, so Clayton waited where he was slumped on the ground, eyes drifting closed_. _He barely noticed the three men approach and start to make camp around him. Eventually a handful of pebbles bounced off the brim of his hat, some hitting his chin. He startled, glancing up to see Mac leering at him from beside the fire. “Hey shithead! Get your lazy ass up. Food’s ready.”

Groaning, Clayton got up listlessly and moved to sit with the other men, accepting a bowl of stew from Joe. He was famished, and made quick work of the meal. No longer feeling quite so hollow, Clayton finished the last of his water before holding out the satchel to Mac. “Here, water boy. Could use a refill when you got the time.”

Mac scowled in response. “Hey fuck you, Coffin, I ain’t nobody’s water boy!”

“Mac.” Bill’s voice was steady. “Fill it up when you wash up. Joe cooks, you clean. You know the rules.”

Mac’s face darkened. Getting up, he collected the dishes from the others and walked over to Clayton. Clayton smirked as he handed him the satchel. Mac glowered down at Clayton, then aimed a swift kick at his side as he passed, catching him just under the ribs. Clayton jerked and swore, curling around his side and coughing as his muscles spasmed. “That’s right, motherfucker, don’t forget who’s in charge here!” Mac snarled. He kicked again, then spat on him before carrying on towards the stream. Bill and Joe continued to eat, watching the scene passively. Clayton slowly straightened, breath heavy, holding his side best he could with his hands bound. He reached up and wiped spit from his face where it had landed, grimacing.

“That man’s sure got a temper. I’d watch it if I were you” Bill drawled. “Still got two days of travel left, and I’m sure he could find many a way to make it mighty uncomfortable for you.” Clayton ignored him, staring placidly at the fire. _I’m sure he’ll make it mighty uncomfortable no matter what I do, _he thought. A few minutes later he heard the sound of Mac approaching from behind, and willed himself not to flinch at the stomping footsteps. Mac brushed roughly by him, throwing the now-full water skin in his lap.

“There you go, shithead.” Mac grumped, ignoring him further in favor of going to his pack and pulling out tobacco.

Clayton waited quietly while the three men talked and smoked, eyes heavy and tired. Before too long Joe was throwing Clayton the same blanket from the night before. He nodded his thanks, then stood up and moved towards the trees. “Hey, where you goin’ boy?” Mac called, a note of warning in his voice.

“Gotta relieve myself. You got a problem with that? Or do you need to come watch me piss too? Got a fetish or something?” Clayton called over his shoulder. Mac didn’t respond. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he saw Mac start to rise, a murderous expression on his face. Bill said something he couldn’t quite make out, and held out a hand clearly meant to stop him. Mac slowly sat back down, eyes glaring daggers at Clayton. _Well, I never was much good at making friends._ He went about his business before making his way back towards the fire.

On his way back, he noted where the horses were tied and their tack settled. Lady, the horse he’d been riding, had seemed an easy disposition, which would help him leave quietly. But Bill’s horse was bigger and younger, and would likely travel faster. _Best try for that one. I’ll need all the advantage I can get. _Picking up his blanket, Clayton moved away from the fire and settled down. He wrapped the blanket around himself, keeping it loose enough to mask any small movements he made. Curling up with his bad shoulder off the ground and feet facing the fire, he slowly reaching down to his boot. Gripping the small jack-knife strapped just inside, he waited a few minutes before re-adjusting his arms and pulling it up to his chest. He didn’t hear anything from the fire – it seemed the movements had been passed off as natural._ Now just gotta wait until it’s dark to cut this shit of my wrists, then hold on until watch changes. _He closed his eyes and waited, falling into a light slumber.

* * *

Clayton drifted lightly as night fell around him. Some time passed before he heard the quiet conversation that indicated a new watch had started. Rousing himself, he glanced towards the fire. Joe was there, facing his direction and staring into the flames. Clayton kept his breathing even and slow, and waited. _Men are always jumpiest for the first little while of a watch. Gotta give him time to settle. _After he deemed enough time had passed, Clayton flipped the knife around, clumsily grasping it in his left hand. His right arm was nigh useless, a strange combination of numb and sore. _If only they hadn’t shot me in my best arm_, he thought grumpily. Being right-handed with a useless right arm was mighty inconvenient.

It took some maneuvering before Clayton was able to find purchase with the knife against the ropes. He gently started to saw away at them, hypervigilant to any noise coming from the campfire. It was a difficult task – he was trying to keep his arms motionless within the blankets, keep the sawing quiet, and hold the knife at just the right angle. It slipped a few times, nicking his hands through his leather gloves. The slowly oozing blood made his hands and knife slicker, and he struggled to keep a solid grasp. He kicked himself internally. _C’mon Sharpe. Almost there. Don’t fuck it up now. _With a quiet _snick_, the ropes cut through and the tension between them slackened. He tried his best to keep the grin off his face. One step closer to freedom.

Clayton slowly wiggled his hands out of the ropes, trying to minimize any movements. He eased the knife closed, slipped it into his pocket then slowly massaged his wrists. He peered out from under his hat and towards the campfire. _Well that’s a damn good bit of luck if I ever saw it¸_ he marveled. Joe was _asleep!_ His head was slumped down, and his eyes were closed. Listening closely, Clayton thought he could hear the faint sound of snoring that hadn’t been present before. _I gotta go now. I’ll never get a chance this good again._

Moving slowly and cautiously, Clayton got up, leaving his blanket in a careful pile. _Maybe they won’t notice there ain’t a body in there_, he thought, briefly allowing hope to bloom. He snagged the full water skin, not wanting to be left without on the ride back to Deadwood. Creeping towards the horses, he grabbed what he thought was the right bridle and saddle. The saddle felt heavier than normal, and carrying it was difficult with his shoulder. He paused when the leather creaked in his grasp, glancing back towards the fire. No movement from Joe. Continuing on, he made his way to the tall buckskin Bill had been riding. The horse blinked open an eye, then snorted at him.

“Hey there,” Clayton murmured softly. “Need you to do me a favour and get me outta here. Sorry for disturbin’ your beauty slumber.” The other horses tied nearby shifted and woke at his voice, heads looking over at him. _C’mon fellas, keep quiet for me. _Setting down the tack, Clayton reached a hand towards the horse. It eyed him distrustfully, but allowed him to pet it’s neck. Moving slowly and gently, he picked up the bridle and moved to its head, reaching up to slip it on. The horse quickly reared its head up and out of his reach, snorting loudly then clamping its mouth shut. _Shit. Fuck. _“C’mon darlin, I know I know. I need ya though”. The other horses were getting antsy, shifting back and forth where they stood. Clayton could feel his heart starting to race. He tried again, holding the bridle up in what he hoped was a calming manner with one hand while he reached for rope around its neck with the other. “It’s ok, it’s fine,” he whispered. The horse kept its head held high and stepped forwards into his space, shoving into his arms hard with its chest with another loud snort. He stumbled backwards a few steps, dropping the bridle with a clatter as his shoulder protested. He cursed. _Fuck it. A slower ride will have to do. _Picking up the bridle and saddle again, he started a few steps towards Lady, who was gazing at him placidly. His hands were shaking, and he knew he’d have to move quickly. _Shit. Shit. This is not going well. C’mon, Sharpe. This is your **only** chance. _

“What the hell’s going on over there?” a voice spoke up groggily from back at the campfire. Clayton darted his head around to see Mac had raised up on one elbow in his bedroll, and was peering into the darkness towards the horses. He watched in silent horror as Mac put a hand above his eyes, trying to block out the firelight to see better. _Please. Please don’t let him see me, _he prayed desperately. Clayton stepped backwards slowly, trying to blend into the shadows. With a loud _crack_, a stick broke under his foot. He froze. Mac’s head honed in on his direction before whipped back towards the abandoned blanket, then back again. “Mother_fucker_!!” he shouted, scrambling to get out of his bedroll and reaching for his gun.

Clayton bolted. Dropping the tack and water skin, he whirled and dashed in the opposite direction of the fire, heading straight for the hills. He could hear the sounds of running footsteps, and Mac shouting for Bill and Joe. The horses whinnied and stamped behind him, startling with the sudden commotion. His heart was beating out of his chest, and adrenaline flooded his veins. Sprinting up the hill, Clayton clambered over rocks and around bushes, pushing himself beyond his limits. A tall bush knocked his hat off his head, but he kept darting forward. He didn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life. He could hear Mac cursing behind him, and willed himself to move faster.

He wasn’t sure how far he made it before he heard pounding footsteps start to catch up. Clayton chanced a glance behind him and saw a flash of movement before Mac slammed into his side, bringing him down with a swift tackle. The air burst out of his lungs as he hit the ground hard and rolled over rocks and brush. Mac quickly scrambled on top of him, swinging a punch wildly at Clayton’s face. “I got you now, you piece of shit!” he yelled angrily. Clayton ducked, and threw a punch of his own, hitting Mac in the ribs. He bucked wildly, trying to throw Mac off him. Mac bore down with his weight and aimed a punch at Clayton’s injured shoulder, catching him in the neck instead. Clayton grunted and grappled his wrists, trying to push him off. With a sudden burst of strength, he flipped them over, kneeing Mac in the groin in the process. As the other man groaned and tried to curl up, Clayton reached into his pocket and drew his jack-knife. Flicking it open, he held it up to Mac’s neck, pressing it tightly under his chin. Mac flinched and tried to move his head back, hands raised in surrender.

“Stop moving, or I’ll cut your fucking throat” Clayton growled. Pounding footsteps and the sudden _click_ of a gun being cocked made him freeze. The footsteps moved closer, and the cool barrel of a gun pressed against his head.

“Why don’t you put the knife down, nice and easy like, and I don’t blow your goddamn head off.” Bill’s voice was full of menace. Clayton hesitated. Mac panted below him, glaring up angrily. “**Now. **Don’t test me, boy.” Clayton sagged in defeat and dropped the knife. Mac promptly punched him, and Clayton’s head whipped to the side as his jaw exploded in pain. A large arm curled around his neck and ripped him off Mac, almost pulling him off his feet entirely. Choking, Clayton grabbed at the arm desperately. Bill tightened his grip and continued the choke-hold, lifting Clayton off his feet to dangle uselessly in the air. Clayton’s lungs started to burn, and he could hear a roaring fill his ears as his vision darkened. He clawed at Bill with is hands, thrashing and kicking best he could. Just as he started to go limp, Bill abruptly let go and threw him onto the ground. He lay there gasping for air, as Mac and Joe crowded closer. Mac passed Clayton’s jack-knife to Bill, who held it up to the moonlight for a better view before looking glaring at Clayton.

Clayton glanced up desperately. “Now, just calm down Bill – can’t blame a man for trying” he gasped out, voice rough and hoarse.

“Oh but I can. See, you and me we had a deal. You don’t try anything stupid, and I don’t let more harm come to you than has already happened. But you broke that deal, and now there’ll be consequences. And I’ve got a couple of mighty angry men here just waitin’ to beat the piss outta you.” Bill spat by his foot, expression thunderous. “Tried to steal our horses. Tried to slice Mac apart. Made us all come out here, running after you in the middle of the night. Your list of transgressions is growin’, and I ain’t feeling mighty charitable right about now.”

“Please” Clayton pleaded, eyes on Bill. He felt an unfamiliar combination of panic and despair settle in. “Please, just let me go. I can make it worth your while. I’ve got money, I can pay.”

“Even if I believed you – which I don’t – I’m not in a mood to bargain, seein’ as you broke the last deal we had. We’ve got good money ridin’ on you. And be doing the world a favour – one less scumbag walkin’ around free.”

“Please. We can work something out. _Please._”

Bill gave a wolfish smile, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Too late for beggin’, Coffin. Boys? Make Mr. Coffin regret this unfortunate bout of foolishness. Don’t break his stitches or bleed him out.” Bill settled onto a nearby rock, pistol held at the ready as Mac and Joe laid into Clayton. Blows rained down on his head, his ribs, his legs, everywhere. Clayton raised his arms protectively around his head, and onto his side to protect his ribs. A particularly vicious kick to an elbow whited out his vision, followed by a blow to the side that had him rolling onto his back with the momentum. Hands pulled his arms away from his head, then hammered into his face repeatedly. Clayton felt his nose shatter, and warm liquid spread across his face. His ankle screamed as a foot stomped down, and another kick left his gut spasming. A punch to the ribs, then a blow to the hip. A snapping sound in his left wrist as it was pressed against the ground at just the wrong angle, leaving him screaming. Before long he lost track, his senses taken over by pain.

Clayton wasn’t sure how long the beating went on for. When he regained a bit of his awareness, he was being dragged back to the campfire, body hanging limp between the two men carrying him. Everything felt hazy, and he couldn’t bring himself to try and open his eyes. The parts of his body that hadn’t already fallen numb were on fire. The iron tang of blood filled his mouth.

Before long he was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Somebody rolled Clayton onto his stomach and knelt on top of him, knee digging into the small of his back. Strong hands yanked his arms behind his back, and rough rope wound its way tightly back around his wrists. He shrieked at the pressure on his broken wrist, and tried to pull his arms away. _No, please no, please stop _he thought desperately. A hand fisted in his hair, slamming his head into the dirt with a snarled “stop moving!” He blacked out momentarily with the impact, pain exploding in his skull. When he came back to himself there was more blood in his mouth and his wrists were bound tight. His left wrist was in agony, and the hand below it completely numb. His ankles were being trussed in a similar manner, one of them protesting sharply at the rough treatment. Strong fingers pried at his jaw, and a dirty rag was shoved into his mouth and tied behind his head. “That ought a keep you still. And quiet, good Lord.” With one last vicious kick to his ribs, he was left alone. He briefly heard a low conversation happening nearby, then the loud _crack_ of someone being backhanded. More whispers, someone settling the horses, the sounds of men shuffling back into their bedrolls, then only the sounds of the night around him.

Clayton could feel his whole body trembling as the last of the adrenaline faded. He was cold, nauseous, and more alone than he had felt in a long time. Everything hurt. Tears start to run down his face, and Clayton tried desperately to keep himself quiet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. _This is it. You fucked up. No more chances now. Guess I won’t be able to have that conversation with the Reverend after all._ Grief and hopelessness raged in his chest, and Clayton felt the world beginning to slip away as the pain and exhaustion overwhelmed him. _Hope I don’t throw up in my sleep, _he thought dimly_, be a mighty poor way to die._

Just before his senses fully faded, Clayton heard a faint voice enter his mind. “_Clayton? I… I hope you can hear me. This is so foolish… you’re probably not even awake, it’s the middle of the damn night. I just. I can’t rest, and Arabella said the dealer, with her sister… well, nevermind that. I just… need to know that you’re ok. That you’re still alive. If you’re there, if you can hear me - we’re comin’ for you. Just hold on. We’re comin’.”_ The voice was deep and soft, and sounded so much like the Reverend Mason. He must be dreaming already. It wrapped around him like a cozy blanket, soothing and warm.

_Sorry, sweetheart. _Clayton thought hazily. _Ain’t sure that’s possible any more. _His voice sounded slurred even in his own head. _Sure glad I get one more dream of you, though. S’nice. Your voice s’nice_.

_“Clayton? **Clayton!** Don’t go, stay with me… just, just hold on! Where are…” _Clayton slid into unconsciousness as Mason’s voice faded into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Clayton. Things will get better next chapter! 
> 
> For the curious – Mason cast Mind Link at the end there. Let’s ignore any particulars of the spell (such as probably needing to see the target, and probably having to be within a certain ranges) in favour of narrative, shall we? 
> 
> Next chapter: The gang catches up. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are very appreciated!


	3. The Third Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, this chapter ran away on me. 
> 
> Specific chapter warnings for more violence, semi-graphic description of a broken arm, and more (probably inaccurate) field medicine. A bit more whump at the start, then lots of hurt/comfort at the end. Some pining??
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, y'all are the best!

Clayton came to consciousness the next morning in bits and pieces. He became aware of warmth from the sun on his back; the sound of quiet conversation, and boots thumping around him; horses being fed nearby; heat radiating up his body. Everything felt distant, even the pain ringing from some far-away place. Not for the first time, he hoped that he wouldn’t have to wake up. _Dying may be better than this. At least there’d be an end then._

Time passed, and eventually a shadow fall over his face as someone crouched down beside him before pushing him over onto his side. Clayton seized and choked on his next breath as the pain that had been so far away rushed back in with a vengeance. Bruises flared to life, and his wrist and shoulder were on fire. A long minute passed before Clayton could hear the man in front of him speak. Clayton opened his eyes and made an effort to focus. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and vision in the other was blurry. It was Bill, face dark as he glowered at Clayton. “I asked, do you need to piss? I don’t wanna deal with you pissin’ all over my horse once we start off.” Clayton nodded, mouth too dry to speak. “Ok, we’ll figure that out in a minute.”

Bill tugged the gag out of Clayton’s mouth, then shoved the mouth of a water satchel in. Clayton choked at the rush of water, trying desperately to drink even as he coughed and spluttered. It didn’t last long, and Clayton fought to catch his breath. Bill rolled him back over, and started untying his hands. The tugging on his wrist brought a whole new wave of pain, and Clayton’s head exploded in static. Distantly he heard Bill call for Mac, then another set of hands started messing with his ankles. He was hauled to his feet and pushed away from the fire and towards the nearby copse of trees, Bill’s hands fisted in his coat to keep him upright. He was weak and unsteady, and could hardly put weight on one of his ankles.

“C’mon boy, do your business and let’s be done with it.” Bill’s hands left him as he stepped back, and Clayton wavered but remained standing. Relieving himself took longer than usual, his injured shoulder still impeding his movement and hands numb from the rope. When he was finished he turned around, keeping his gaze on the ground. “Alright, arms behind your back.”

Clayton’s face blanched, and he took a step back, looking up anxiously at Bill as he pulled his wrist in close to his chest. “Please, you don’t need tie me back up, my wrist, I can’t-“

Bill’s face, already dark, grew murderous. His hand shot out, too quick for Clayton to follow, and wrapped around his neck. Strong fingers dug into the already sore flesh of Clayton’s throat. “Oh you can’t, is that so? Shoulda thought of that before you fucked with us last night, Coffin. I don’t give a shit about your fucking wrist.” Clayton gasped for air and grabbed at Bill’s arm to ease the pressure. Rough hands easily pulled him off, then wrestled both arms behind his back and started to retie him. _Mac._ Clayton hadn’t noticed the other man was waiting there with Bill. Mac’s hands were bruising on Clayton’s arms, and the bones in his wrist ground together from the pressure. Clayton felt a shout screech to a halt in his throat as Bill’s hand tightened, and his lungs burned with the lack of air. His legs buckled as his vision grew hazy. Dimly, he felt his body drop to the ground and dirt fill his vision. Hands prodded at his arms and legs, tying both before hooking under his upper arms. As he was dragged off the ground, pain surged in his wrist and shoulder and he was swallowed by darkness once more.

* * *

When Clayton regained some cognizance, he was slung over Lady’s saddle once again, arms and legs trussed with the gag firmly back in place. Everything felt diluted and off, his mind disconnected from his body and surroundings. Clayton didn’t fight it, knowing that waking further would only bring more pain. And what good would consciousness do him? He couldn’t fight, couldn’t escape, couldn’t change anything about this. So he stayed in the mild comfort of semi-consciousness.

He wasn’t sure how long he floated. But the haze couldn’t last forever, no matter how nice it was. Eventually he returned to his senses, and noise from his surroundings flooded back in. The pain sharpened, brightened, almost stealing his breath. As the fuzziness left him, he became hyper-aware of the smallest sensations – the jostling of the horse beneath him, the scratch of the saddle against his cheek, the draw of the gag against his mouth. His wrist and shoulder ached, his nose throbbed, and his throat felt tight and swollen. He turned his head, trying to scratch an itch, and heard a voice speak from nearby. It took him a moment to realize it was directed at him.

“-finally movin’! What a fucking pussy, can’t even stay awake through a little pain. I know plenty of men who take a beatin’ better than you do. How on earth’d you get to have such a fearsome reputation?” Mac jeered down at him. Clayton tried his best to ignore him, knowing the other man was trying to get a rise.

“Heard you whimpering in your sleep last night, Coffin,” Mac mocked. “Who you calling out for? Ain’t no way a killer like you’s got anybody worryin’ about him.” _That’s not true_, _just ignore him,_ Clayton thought hopelessly. But a small part of him worried that it was. Had the others even noticed he was gone? Would Mason even miss him? Maybe he was glad he no longer had to deal with the moral dilemma of being friends with a man who had committed as many crimes as Clayton. He thought of the dream from the night before, when he heard Mason’s voice. _It was just a stupid dream, they ain’t coming. You ain’t worth the risk, Sharpe, _he thought, heart sinking. His body tensed at the thoughts despite himself, and he turned his head away from Mac. Above him, Mac laughed.

“Yeah, that’s right. Not sure why you ever thought tryin’ to get away was a good idea, not like you had anywhere to go. Stupid as shit, if you ask me. And now you know you ain’t _never_ gonna get away from us, we’re just too damn good.” His voice changed trajectory, throwing further back down the trail. “Even if Joe’s a lazy sack of shit who can’t stay awake during his _fucking watch_.”

A muttered “Stop it, Mac,” came from behind. “I said I was sorry, won’t happen again.”

“Yer damn right it won’t. I got a shiner because of you and this wily asshole here.”

“Mac, leave it be. Already been over this.” Bill’s deep voice chimed in.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mac grumped, before finally leaving Clayton and the other man be. Clayton was grateful for the disruption. He was hurting enough without ruminating on his situation, his failure from the evening prior, and his people so many miles away. Clayton wasn’t unfamiliar with heartache, but that didn’t mean he wanted to dwell on it. He knew he’d drastically underestimated his own capacity at the moment, as well as the cruelty of the men who had captured him. _Don’t know if I’m lucky or not that they didn’t just kill me. That bounty must be worth a lot. _Turning inwards, Clayton forced himself to concentrate on simply breathing, hoping that it would distract him from both his thoughts and pain he was experiencing. The throb of pain across his nose and the gag in his mouth made even that simple task difficult.

Time passed slowly after that, silence broken intermittently by the men conversing around him. Their mood seemed sour, and they were tense and irritable. Clayton was little surprised, given the previous evening, and felt some measure of satisfaction at having caused such a disruption to their plans. As the day wore on, the satisfaction waned into misery. Clayton wavered between acute awareness of everything that hurt in his body, and floating numbly with little comprehension of what was going on around him. His periods of lucidity were accompanied by a hollowness in his gut and dryness in his throat. He knew that the lack of water and food wasn’t helping his coherency, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

He didn’t know how long they’d been traveling before the quiet was broken by a low whistle from Joe. “Got company. Comin’ up behind us.” The sound of horses approached his ears through the haze. The day had turned into evening without him noticing, and it was growing dark quickly. The strangers were moving fast, or at least faster than them. _It must be getting’ dark, if no one noticed them comin’ up until now… _Around him Clayton could hear Bill, Mac, and Joe tense up and prepare for whoever was coming.

Several tense minutes passed before a voice called out from behind. “Howdy there strangers! Say, you boys familiar with this area? Might you be willing to lend me and my companions a hand?” _Wait. Who is that? _The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Clayton felt Lady draw to a stop, and heard the creaking of saddles around him. “Howdy.” Unsurprisingly, it was Bill who replied. “Might be, what d’you folks need?”

The horses continued their approach before drawing to a halt as well. “Well, y’see, we’re headin’ to Cheyenne, but ain’t never been down this trail before. We’re having a mighty hard time findin’ any spots to camp where we can water our horses proper. D’you know of anywhere around here that might do? We ain’t trying to steal a good camping spot from you, just lookin’ for a place to stay.” It was hard to focus. But he _knew_ that voice. It sounded… off, different somehow, but so familiar.

After a long minute, Bill spoke again. “Yeah, we know a spot. Big enough that you can settle near us, if your women-folk don’t mind being near strange men that is.”

“Don’t mind at all, thank you kindly sir”. A fresh voice piped up, a young woman, also familiar… Clayton tried to wrench himself out of his daze, twisting his arms slightly in the hope that the pain would bring clarity.

“Oh bless your soul, that’s mighty kind of you. We’ll take you up on that offer. It much further? We’ve had a long day.” _Bless your soul… _with a rush of recognition, Clayton knew. _Reverend Mason. Arabella. Why are they **here?** Did they come for me? Don’t they know it’s not safe, these men aren’t safe? They can’t be here, it’s not safe, it’s not safe – _panic swelled in his throat. Clayton thrashed in his ropes, trying to yell through the gag and warn them away. Cursing came from above, then the butt of a rifle smashed into his head. Stars flared in his skull, and he went limp, ears ringing from the impact. The voices around him seemed to come from a mile away.

_“… sorry you had to see such nastiness, ma’am, he’s a right dangerous criminal and we’ve been havin’ a hard time keepin’ him under control.”_

_“… oh, it’s no trouble at all… my, he must be dangerous if he’s all trussed up like that. You boys bounty hunters? … Well, good you’re doing such fine work and upholdin’ the law…”_

Clayton faded in and out, the voices continuing around him as the horses started moving on. He couldn’t piece together what was happening, couldn’t figure out why they were here. _Did they see me, did they know it was me? Don’t they know these men will hurt them, they can’t be here, it’s not safe… _his thoughts went in circles as trepidation settled deep in his gut. He knew something was coming, but didn’t understand what, and was too foggy to make sense of the conversation around him. Before too long, he felt the horses change direction, then begin to slow. He opened his eyes and was met with darkness. _Stoppin’ later than normal… _the horses came to a stop, and the sounds of people dismounting filled the air. Conversation shifted to setting up camp, untacking the horses, lighting a fire. Clayton let it wash over him, alarm still buzzing in his core.

Eventually he heard footsteps, before Lady was led to a different spot. Another set of footsteps, then large hands grabbed his legs and hauled him off the saddle. He fell to a heap on the ground with a sense of déjà vu as Bill grabbed him under the arms and dragged him over to where he could just make out sacks and rolled bedding in the moonlight. Once again his shoulders protested strongly, joined by other dizzying pains from his various limbs. He was dumped unceremoniously on his front. Bill knelt nearby to start a fire, rifle laid on the ground beside him. _They’re not taking any chances with strangers here, _Clayton thought. His panic grew. If the others were here for him…

Another man joined Bill. _Aly_. “Mind if we share a fire? Be a mite easier for cookin’, and two sets of hands will get it started quicker.”

Bill chuckled. “Sure. Just don’t fuck with our bounty or our food and you’ll be fine.”

“Oh, no worry of that, not our sort of business Mr. Coleman. I thank you kindly, I’ll be sure to bring some tobacco over to share.” Clayton sought eye contact with Aly, but the other man wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was hard to see, face pressed into the dirt as it was. Before long the dancing firelight made his head pound, and he gave up, eyes drifting shut to conserve what little energy he had. He heard other people approached, then felt two sets of hands hook around his upper arms. Clayton curled away, knowing the pain that would follow if he was moved, but was quickly overpowered. They dragged him quickly away from the fire, and he was left shaking and gasping for air on the ground as fire burned in his arm and shoulder. With a mutter of “fucking pain in the ass” from Mac, the men re-settled around the fire.

Clayton struggled to catch his breath, only aware of himself and the ground beneath him. It was some time before he could hear what was going on at the fire, and even longer before he was able to turn his head and open his eyes to watch. The scene before him was both familiar and foreign. Bill, Mac, and Joe sat closest to him, Bill turned to keep an eye on both him and the newcomers. On the other side of the fire, barely visible in the flickering light, sat the Reverend, Aly, Arabella, and Miriam. He drank in the sight of them, gaze lingering on Mason a beat too long. He couldn’t believe the other man was here, that any of them were here. They had to have seen him, had to know it was him. Had they _followed him? _Nobody had ever cared enough before to track him down if he was in a bad way. Clayton couldn’t identify the feeling that washed over him at the idea of that kind of care, and clenched his eyes shut at the threat of tears. _Get yourself together, ain’t no time to get emotional now, Sharpe. _

Clayton ground his teeth into the gag and re-opened his eyes, looking towards the fire to distract from the warring emotions in his chest. The other members of the Deadwood five looked like they’d been riding hard, and were dressed for the trail in a way he’d never seen. Miriam and Arabella were wearing breeches, and the Reverend was dressed down, his familiar black clothing and white collar missing. He looked like a regular cowboy, and seemed to be trying to change his speech patterns to fit the look. They all were, he realized. _Must be worried these men are Deadwood locals, who’d know who they are. _He could tell that they were trying to act casual, but all four were tense and wary.

Conversation drifted around him, and Clayton didn’t try to follow it. His head was too full of worry and static to make concentration easy, so he simply kept his gaze on Mason. _I never thought I’d see you again. I just hope this doesn’t get you killed_. He made an effort to settle his fluttering heart, trusting that the others had a plan.

The night wore on, and before long pipes and cigarettes were being pulled out of pockets and packs. After rummaging through his pack, Bill moved to stand in between his men, a few feet in front of Clayton. Clayton tensed at his proximity.

“Y’know, I’ve been havin’ this strange feeling all night. Like y’all are just this side of familiar. Especially you – Adam, was it?” Clayton couldn’t see where Bill was pointing. He felt the atmosphere of the group shift, and everyone around the fire tensed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the outline of Bill’s rifle in his hand. “And it just clicked. I saw you outside the church way back in Deadwood, fixin’ it up. Except you was wearing a preacher’s collar back then.” Mac and Joe shifted, hands drifting towards their weapons, and he could see the others do the same. “So I gotta wonder what in the hell a preacher is doin’ out here, pretending to be someone he ain’t.” Bill’s voice had dropped to a low growl. Clayton’s heart stuttered in his chest, anxiety blooming full force.

“Now just wait here, son –“ Mason’s voice was calm and steady as he got to his feet, holding out a hand plaintively, his other curled by his holster.

“Nah, I ain’t interested in whatever bullshit tale you’re gonna spin me” Bill cut in. “I know the Reverend of Deadwood is friendly with the Coffin here. And I ain’t about to lose good money over some sentimentality for a stone-cold killer.” He aimed his rifle at Mason. A flurry of motion exploded around the fire as people leapt to their feet and drew their weapons.

Mason, pistol in hand, aimed steadily at Bill. “Now this doesn’t have to end in violence. You can hand over our friend and be on your way, but we will be taking him back. You’re out-gunned here, son.” His voice was cold and harsh.

Bill laughed. “We may be out-gunned, but don’t think this’ll go down easy.” Everyone tensed as he walked backwards, stepping over Clayton’s body to stand just behind him. Clayton froze as the barrel of the rifle pressed down against his head. “It seems that we’ve got something that’s important to you. Now he’s better off to me alive, but dead is just fine too. So put your guns down, or I blow _his fucking head off_.”

Clayton watched as Mason tensed, face pale in the firelight. He couldn’t figure out if it was rage or fear splayed across his face, gaze locked on Clayton and the gun. Around him Arabella, Aly, and Miriam had stilled, weapons still pointed at Joe and Mac. “Now just, just hold on. You don’t want to do that…”

“Nah, go on now. Put the weapons down.” Clayton felt the world sharpen as time seemed to slow to a crawl, heart pounding in his ears. He saw Mason shift his hold on his gun, making like he was going to put it down. Clayton knew he could give them a moment – just a moment – to even the odds. He braced himself, clamped down on the air in his lungs, and threw his body over, rolling hard into Bill’s legs. Bill stumbled and shot his gun, the explosion ringing in Clayton’s ears as something licked a hot line down his temple, head bursting with pain. Someone screamed his name, then an angry roar filled the air as Mason leapt over his body and tackled Bill. The sound of gunshots and fighting rang out all around them. Clayton felt something shift in his wrist at the weight of his body, and frantically rolled himself back onto his side, weak from the sudden eruption of pain. His head throbbed, and he couldn’t track what was going on around him. Clayton curled himself into a ball as best he could, trying to protect himself in the chaos.

Everything sounded far away and too close all at the same time, a cacophony of curses and punches being thrown filtering through over the ringing in his ears. He heard a sharp scream that cut off into gurgles, and another gunshot fired. Miriam hollered to “watch out, he’s running!” as footsteps pounded away, followed closely by another yell of “on him!” from Aly. More footsteps went in the same direction, as horses whinnied nearby. He heard scuffling in the dirt behind him as sticks broke under bodies, and the thud that signaled punches were being thrown. A woman touched the wound on his head and made him flinch. “Mr. Sharpe, oh thank heavens you’re alive.” Her voice faded at the crunch of bone and cartilage behind him. There was a strangled scream and a loud crack, then more crunching that gradually gave way to wet thuds. The hand left him and footsteps rushed past his head.

Clayton curled up further, fear and pain making his head spin. The same woman, speaking low and soft behind him “Reverend, Reverend, I think he’s gone, you got him, it’s over, it’s over.” More gunshots sounded in the distance, and someone stumbled over to kneel beside him. The whine in his ears got louder, blocking out sounds. He panicked as someone touched his head with two big hands, wet with something viscous. The iron tang of blood filled the air. He struggled to get away, letting out a whimper through the gag. The hands held firm, gently stroking his hair and tugging at the gag as noise filtered back in.

“Shhh, Clayton, it’s ok, it’s ok now, I’ve got you. It’s Matthew, you’re safe now, you’re ok, they’re gone –“ It was Mason. Clayton opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. Mason was gazing down at him, face frantic and splattered with blood. The gag was pulled gently from his mouth.

“You came…” Clayton croaked, voice slurring through cracked and dry lips. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “You actually came for me.”

“I… of course we did, how could we let you go?” Mason’s voice cracked with emotion. “I’d never leave you, never leave you to this.” Clayton shivered as he was pulled in close, taking comfort from the gentle touch. “I’m sorry we made you wait, we thought it would be easier if they were asleep. But you’re ok, it’s done now." Mason’s voice was quiet and fierce as he cradled Clayton close, hands stroking his hair.

The soft voice of the woman from before interrupted. It was Miriam. “Reverend, I need you to go wash your hands before you help me with him, you’re covered in blood."

It was a long moment before Mason spoke, his voice full of reluctance. “Yes, you’re right, of course… I, I’ll go wash up, just give me a moment, I’ll be back.” The hands left his face, placing his head gently back on the ground. Knees creaked as he stood then stumbled away. Clayton looked up, quietly protesting the loss of contact.

Miriam touched his shoulder, then called after Mason. “And fill up that pot with more water, would you? I think we’re gonna need it.” She looked at Clayton, eyes soft. “I’m going to cut your ropes, ok? Then we can see what you need.”

He nodded, a lump in his throat, uncurling and rolling onto his front to give her better access to his arms. Miriam took out a knife and grabbed the ropes, starting to saw through them indelicately. Too late, Clayton remembered his wrist, and a gasp burst from his throat as he flinched away. “Stop! Stop. Please, my wrist, they broke my wrist.” Speaking was difficult, his mouth dry and throat sore. He sounded like he’d been gargling rocks.

Miriam paused, hands moving away before they re-settled. She stroked his arm in a soothing motion. “Ok. You’re ok, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll be careful, and I’ll try to be quick. That alright with you?” Clayton calmed at the hand on his arm. He nodded, shoulders tensing in anticipation. Miriam gently maneuvered his arms to get at the ropes, then started sawing away. She was quick and careful, true to her word, but the motion still sent pain shooting up his arm, making him queasy. A short moment later and he felt the ties loosen and Miriam carefully lowered his arms to his sides. “Let me get your legs then we’ll roll you over.” She moved to his feet and he tried to keep still. “There. All done. I don’t think I can get you over onto your back by myself, can you roll over?” Clayton nodded. Gathering his strength, he rolled himself over his bad shoulder. Miriam assisted best she could, tugging carefully at his duster and holding his shoulder to lower him to the ground. He was sweaty and trembling by the time he collapsed onto his back in the dirt. With a shaky right hand he grasped his sore wrist and brought it in to his chest, cradling it carefully. Footsteps alerted him to Mason’s return, just as Aly and Arabella walked back into the clearing dragging a body between them.

“Got the last of ‘em.” Aly said with a sharp grin, looking around at the others after dumping the body on the ground. “How’s everybody? Anybody hurt?”

Clayton closed his eyes and struggled to quell the shaking in his body as the others spoke above him. His head was still spinning, and the ache in his temple was more pronounced. More footsteps rang overhead, then something was set down by his head with a faint clang. Aly let out a low whistle, followed by “damn, Reverend, you got him good.” There was a murmur in response, then Arabella spoke in an insistent tone. “C’mon Mason, I’ll tend your hands, he’ll be just fine for another moment, Miriam’s got him.” Footsteps moved away, and a hand touched his arm again.

“Clayton? I’m going to wipe the blood off your face, ok?” It was Miriam. He nodded, then a damp cloth was wiping his face and hair. “Lord, that man got blood all over you.”

“Blood’s on m’face? What happen’d? Somebody get shot?” Clayton asked, confused. Had someone bled on him? Who got shot? He couldn’t remember.

There was a pause before Miriam spoke again. “Just a little bit, honey. Don’t you worry about what happened, everything’s fine.” She kept washing him for another minute before prodded at his temple. “You are one lucky man, I thought he’d killed you with that shot for sure. Just a graze, I’ll bandage it up quick.” Oh. That must be why his head was pounding. He opened his eyes, looking up at her. “Let’s get some water into you first, I bet you’re parched.”

Clayton nodded his consent. Miriam slipped an arm under his shoulders and raised him up enough that she could help him drink from a water satchel she had with her. Clayton drank frantically, desperate to quell his thirst. Too soon she drew it away. “I’ll give you more in a minute. Gotta take it slow.”

Setting him back down, Miriam peered into his face. “Now where else are you hurt? Your wrist, your head, where else?” She pressed a soft cloth against his temple where he could feel blood trickling down into his hair.

Clayton tried to focus and remember everything that was wrong. “M’ shoulder – got shot. Ribs ‘r sore.” He raised a shaky hand to touch his neck, then dropped it back down to hold his wrist. “M’ throat… and m’ wrist, Miss Miriam, think it’s broken.”

“Yes, your wrist, I know, you already said that honey. When did you get shot?” She opened his duster and pressed a hand against his shoulder, feeling around for blood.

“Back in Deadwood. ‘S stitched up, just sore.”

Miriam nodded and stopped her probing. “I’ll take a look at it tomorrow, make sure it’s not infected.” Her fingers skimmed across his face, making him flinch. “Looks like your nose is broken, and you got one hell of a black eye. Your head sore?”

“Yes’m. Keeps spinnin’ too.”

She frowned. “I’ll bet. Once Arabella’s done with the Reverend we’ll take a look at your wrist.” She lifted the bandage briefly, checking the cut on his head. “Doesn’t look like this’ll need stitches, let me just get this bandage situated while we wait.”

He closed his eyes while she wound a thin strip of cloth around his head to hold the bandage in place, and started to drift again. Miriam probed gently at his neck and around the back of his head, then gently palpated his ribs, checking for more injuries. He stayed still, comfortable in the knowledge that his people were there.

Before long he heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps approaching, opening his eyes to see Mason crouch beside him.

“Reverend, can you help me get him closer to the fire? We need to see his arm better, they broke a wrist. Maybe Aly can help, he’s strong too.”

Mason shook his head. “It’s ok, Miss Miriam, I’ve got him.” Then big hands were digging under Clayton’s shoulders and knees, scooping him carefully off the ground and into Mason’s arms, cradled close to his chest. Clayton clutched at Mason’s shirt and held his breath. He couldn’t believe Mason was strong enough to pick him up. And he made it seem so _easy_.

Mason walked him closer to the fire and set him down as close as he could for comfort. “Let’s sit you up, Clay.” He knelt beside him, a hand on Clayton’s back, hovering close by. Miriam went and spoke quietly with Arabella, motioning back to him. Aly joined them, and he heard mention of setting a bone. Clayton sought to stay sitting, but felt himself list to the side before long, too tired to sit properly. A strong arm wrapped around his back and drew him in to slump against Mason’s side. He couldn’t stop shaking.

Arabella came over and knelt in front of him. He tried to smile at her but wasn’t sure he had succeeded. “Clay, can I see your wrist? See if we can do something about settin’ that bone?” He held it out, and she gently took it, frowning. “We’ve got to get you out of this coat and your gloves, not much I can do with them on.” Clayton grimaced at the prospect. “Let’s get your other arm out first, it’ll make it easier if we do it all of the bad side at once.” Mason propped him back up and helped him work his arm out of the coat. His shoulder was stiff and unwieldy, and he was grateful for the help.

“Ready?” Arabella glanced at his face, looking for confirmation. At his nod she carefully worked his glove off, then the coat sleeve, her mouth tightening at the whimpers he couldn’t hold back. Mason’s arm tightened around his shoulders, and he felt his shaking intensify. _Hold it together, Sharpe. _He reprimanded himself. Arabella rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing the break. She sucked in a breath at the sight, hands stilling in their task.

“Good Lord Clayton, your wrists.” Mason whispered, fingers clenching tight on Clayton’s shoulder. Clayton glanced down, getting a good look at his hands and wrists for the first time in days. His wrists were a mess, both covered with deep abrasions from the ropes, red and angry-looking. He could see dried blood in places, and shallow cuts from when he’d freed himself the evening prior. But worse by far was his broken wrist. Deep purple and black bruises covered the joint, extending up his arm. His hand was swollen and twisted at an unnatural angle, and he could see where one of his bones had come out of place, visible through the skin. His heart started pounding and he felt faint. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to control his nausea. Arabella gently took his arm and examined it closely.

“We’ve got to get your wrists clean too, you’ll get an infection. Miriam, can you bring me that water and some soap? And a fresh cloth. It looks like the bone broke a bit before the wrist – good thing, wrists are tricky bones to heal properly. Aly, find me a couple of good straight sticks, would you? Nice and sturdy, but not too thick.” Clayton allowed Arabella’s voice to wash over him.

Mason shifted at his side. “Clayton… I can heal you, I can go to the Dealer, will you let me heal you?” he asked in a pleading tone.

Clayton jolted back to himself, pulled his arm from Arabella and twisted away from Mason best he could. Mason reached for him, and Clayton grabbed his hand from the air, stopping the motion.

“No! No healing, no fuckin’ Dealer, don’t… I can take it, Mason, I’ll be fine.” Clayton couldn’t let him try, couldn’t let what had happened to Aly happen to him. “I can’t, I can’t lose you now, can’t lose any of you, not again.” He looked at Mason with alarm, remembering the consequences of Aly’s failed healing so many weeks ago. Aly had lost all his emotions, and threatened to kill Clayton for a bounty himself. It was only swift thinking and a bottle of whisky to the head by Miriam that stopped him. He’d left town without a word after the others hid Clayton away, only to return a week later, begging for forgiveness. It had taken time, but Aly had helped to burn the wanted posters and mended the broken trust. Clayton had thought he was safe in Deadwood after that, that he didn’t need to worry anymore. _Clearly you were wrong, _he thought ruefully. But he couldn’t let what had happened to Aly happen to Mason. Not here, not now. _Not ever_, a voice whispered in his head.

“Clayton… I can heal you.” Mason’s voice was soft and deep, his eyes intent on Clayton’s face.

“Please, Matthew… I can take the pain, it’ll heal, but I can’t take you leaving. Don’t go to the Dealer, promise me you won’t.” He heard the fear in his voice, but couldn’t care enough to change it.

Mason heaved out a breath of air, face crestfallen. “Ok. Ok, Clayton. I won’t.”

Clayton searched his face for any hint of a lie, and nodded when he couldn’t find one. “Thank you.” He slumped again as the fear and adrenaline drained from his body. Mason tugged his arm out from under Clayton’s hand and turned him back around to face Arabella.

Arabella took his arm again as Aly and Miriam returned with the supplies they’d been sent to find. She looked at Clayton, then at Mason behind him. “This is going to hurt. I’ve got to pull on your arm to straighten out the bones. Reverend, can you hold onto him, help keep him still so we don’t make it worse?” Mason nodded and shifted behind him, pulling Clayton between his legs, flush with his back against his chest. Clayton felt one thick arm wrap over his shoulder and around his chest, while the other one took hold of his broken arm near the elbow. Clayton grabbed onto the arm holding him, fingers clenching for something to hold onto in anticipation of the pain. Aly sat down near his legs, while Miriam knelt by Arabella with sticks and bandages at the ready.

Arabella took hold of his wrist and his arm with both hands. “On three. One, two –“ she pulled, hard and insistent, and his vision went white. Clayton heard someone shout through ears filled with cotton, pulse pounding in his head. Another tug and a twist, and the world went sideways. All he could feel was the pain in his arm and the arm around his chest. It felt like it would last forever, like it would tear his arm apart. Someone was speaking in his ear, but he couldn’t make out the words. Abruptly, the pulling stopped, and he nearly sobbed with relief. He gasped for air as gentle hands wound cloth around his arm.

Gradually Clayton came back to himself, and found himself limp in Mason’s grasp. Arabella was tying off a bandage that was wound tightly around his arm, which was bracketed by two sturdy sticks. Aly had a hand on his legs, Miriam was stroking his arm, and Mason murmured in his ear, a soothing repetition of “you’re ok, you’re ok.” A rush of warmth filled him at their care. Before long Arabella was washing and bandaging his wrists, then placing his bound arm against his chest and encouraging him to hold it. He clasped it with trembling fingers. The warm bulk at his back moved away, only for strong arms to scoop him up again. His head lolled against Mason’s chest, the thud of his heartbeat strong and reassuring. Clayton heard the buzz of conversation around him, but couldn’t find the energy to pay attention. Mason settled him down on a bedroll, and hands spread blankets over him.

“Clayton? Clayton, honey, I need you to drink some more water before you fall asleep.” He blinked awake, and saw Miriam hold out a water satchel. Mason propped him up, and he drank deeply before he was laid back down again. Someone tucked the blankets in around him, then smoothed a hand over his hair. “That’s right, go to sleep. You’re safe now, we’ve got you.” Safe. He was finally safe, it was finally over. For the first time in days, Clayton allowed himself to relax, knowing that his people were keeping watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for the arrival of the gang! Miriam is my fav. And Mason is having a lot of feels about Clayton being hurt and is feeling very protective, ok? 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are very appreciated!


	4. Returning Home (The First Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang starts their way back home, one slightly worse for wear gunslinger in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh this took a while. Apologies, I got distracted and wrote a fluffy Christmas fic before working on this. Chapters from here on out will probably be every other week, as weekly has just not been happening. Thanks again to everyone who left comments and kudos, y’all are amazing!! 
> 
> Chapter specific warnings:
> 
> \- There is a graphic depiction of dead bodies – if you want to skip that part, it starts at the paragraph that begins with “Several buzzards crouched on the bodies” and ends at the paragraph that starts with “he looked at Mason”. 
> 
> \- Clayton has some trauma responses in this chapter, including panic attacks and triggers. He’s also pretty self-deprecating about them, so be aware if that’s a trigger for you. His thoughts in no way reflect my beliefs or the thoughts of his party.
> 
> Enjoy!

Clayton was warm. He wasn’t sure what had pulled him from the dense fog of sleep, but he knew that he didn’t want to be awake. Not yet. He couldn’t remember exactly why, but knew that being awake would be unpleasant. Sounds washed over him - the crackling of a fire, the metal of dishware, two men speaking in low voices. _Shit. _He froze, suddenly gripped by fear. Heavy footsteps made their way his direction, and he tensed under the blankets. When a hand touched his shoulder, he flinched away, arms raised defensively in front of his face as he curled onto his side. His broken arm protested the movement, and his heart started pounding as panic gripped his chest. _Please no, not again, Jesus I can’t take much more - _

“-yton. _Clayton_. It’s me, it’s Matthew. You’re ok. You’re safe.” Sound filtered in slowly over the rushing in his ears. He cracked open his eyes against the sunlight and saw Mason crouched beside him, a look of concern on his face.

“Mason?” Clayton gasped out. He couldn’t _breathe. _Panic flared again and he rolled onto his side, struggling for air. The fear was overwhelming. He couldn’t remember why Mason was here, couldn’t focus beyond the vice in his chest.

“Easy, easy. Just breathe. That’s it, nice and slow.” Mason’s voice was deep and measured, an anchor in the storm within Clayton’s chest. Clayton focused on his voice and tried to regain his bearings. Mason. Mason was here, and Mason was safety. Memory of the night before started to trickle in as his hearing and sight expanded beyond the tunnel that encompassed his senses. It was a few minutes before the panic fully receded, leaving him exhausted. He remembered the others being there, there was a fight... he frowned and raised a hand to his head, feeling the bandage. Right. He'd been shot. Well, grazed, really. His eyes fell on the rough splint on his arm. _Right_. Arabella had set his arm. He finally found his voice. “Sorry. I… sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

He looked up to see Mason watching him closely with concern painted across his face. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

Clayton sat up shakily and nodded, breaking eye contact. "Sort of. It's a bit... fuzzy. Can't quite make out what all happened. I remember y'all being around the campfire, remember Bill bein' angry, then... Arabella set my arm. I think Miriam did my head." His voice was scratchy and quiet, and speaking hurt. Clayton lightly touched his neck, finding the skin tender to his touch.

Mason frowned. "Anything else?"

He shook his head lightly, nausea blooming with the motion. "Not really. I, I know there was fighting. Doubt I was much use to you for that." He chuckles, tries to force the panic further down into his gut and away from his heart at the question that he _has_ to ask, that he can't let sit. "Did y'all... are they dead?" He can't look at Mason, doesn't think he can stand to see the disappointment on Mason's face at the hope that he's sure is on his own. He knows the preacher isn't totally opposed to killing, but there was a big difference between killing the undead and evil creatures and killing living, breathing men. Even ones as bad as Bill and co.

"Oh, yes. We made sure of that." Mason's tone was dark, a growl in his voice, and Clayton looked up in surprise. Mason pointed behind their camp, to where Clayton could spy a pile of bodies some couple hundred feet away. "Aly and I are gonna take their bodies further away from the trail before we leave, see if we can't cover up what happened a little. Critters should take care of the rest for us, no point in burying what'll only be dug up."

Clayton nodded faintly, then struggled his way to his feet, holding his splinted arm carefully against his chest. His head spun, and when the light-headedness cleared he found Mason standing in front of him, hands outstretched, clearly ready to catch him if he fell. Taking a step, one of his ankles buckled and he nearly fell as stretched tendons roared to life. He hissed and rolled his foot, testing the ankle.

Mason came closer, and the concerned look grew. “You ok? Your foot hurt too? Here, let me help you.”

Clayton gingerly took another step and found that his ankle would bear weight, albeit not without pain. “Just my ankle. ‘S fine, I can walk. Wanna see the bodies.” He shook off the proffered arm and limped forward determinedly, steeling his face into a look of determination, hoping that it would mask the pain. He wasn’t sure how well he succeeded.

He made his unsteady way towards the bodies, stumbling around bedrolls and saddlebags, ankle grumbling with each step. Mason hovered close beside, looking unsure, as Aly looked up from his place by the fire and took note of the direction he was heading. Aly's face grew briefly alarmed, and he stood, reaching out a hand to slow Clayton.

"Hey Clay, might not want to go over there. You ain't lookin' too steady, and it's not a pleasant sight."

Clayton scowled. "Seen plenty o' bad shit in my day Aloysius, or do you not remember me cuttin' the head off a corpse recently?" He lurched forward, skirting around Aly and continuing on his course. "I need to see."

Aly sighed and returned to the pot he was stirring. "Rev'rend, holler if his stubborn ass falls and you need a hand gettin' him back here." Clayton didn't catch a response but could hear Mason following him closely. Clearly neither of them had much trust in his physical capacity at the moment - he must look as bad as he felt.

The walk only took a minute or two, but felt like an hour. Clayton's limbs felt like lead, and between the ankle and the dizziness he wasn't sure he was walking in a straight line. By the time they made it to the pile of corpses, his breathing was heavier than it should've been and his head was pounding anew. He struggled to hide it, but could tell by the look on Mason's face that he wasn't overly successful.

Several buzzards crouched on the bodies, squawking as the approached. Mason threw stones and they dispersed, flying up and circling, clearly unhappy at the disruption to their meal. Clayton walked closer and took in the sight. The bodies were stiff and waxy in the morning light, skin already starting to blister. Sure enough, all three were there, clothing covered in blood. Part of Mac's head was missing, clearly hit with a bullet. Joe's neck was slit, and he imagined someone had got him with a bowie knife. Pieces of both were torn away, clearly having been gnawed on by animals, and the eyes and lips had been pecked from both of their skulls by birds. The slick feeling of satisfaction curled down his spine, the darker parts of him pleased that they had clearly met a violent end. Bill was face down in the dirt, and he knelt and rolled him over. Mason made a light sound of protest behind him - out of concern for his wounds or concern for him seeing the body, Clayton wasn't sure. Then he saw his face and understood.

Bill's face was destroyed, an unrecognizable pulpy mass of flesh and blood. One side of his face had caved in from hairline to cheekbone, and it was hard to make out any details under all the blood. It looked like someone had taken a rock to his face, and just kept hitting. He could see bone, and viscous jelly from one of his eye sockets trailed over his cheek. Clayton's stomach roiled as the scent of blood sharpened and he clamped his eyes shut and swallowed hard, determined not to heave. _You've seen worse, Sharpe. Hell, you’ve **done **worse. C’mon_. It took a moment for his stomach to settle, and when it did he took to his feet again, gazing down at Bill's ruined skull. He wracked his memory from the night before, remembering brief snippets of the fight.

He looked at Mason, who was standing beside him and glaring furiously at the dead men on the ground, and noticed bandages wound around his hands. Clayton gestured to Bill. "This you?" Mason nodded, steadily meeting his gaze.

"It was. And I'd do it again, if I had to." His voice held a dark solemnity, and Clayton knew this was a promise. To who, he wasn't sure.

Clayton swallowed hard, overcome with gratitude. What had he done to deserve loyalty such as this? "Thank you." His voice was hoarse and raw. "I can't say it enough. I’m real sorry y’all got messed up in my business, but I’m grateful. I... I didn't think anybody'd notice I was missin', but here you are."

"Why wouldn't we..." Mason's voice trailed off as Clayton swayed on his feet. "Someday you and I are gonna have a chat about why you think we wouldn't notice your absence, but not now. C'mon, you're dead on your feet." He gently took Clayton's arm and steered him back towards the camp. "And Clayton? You're welcome. I only wish we'd gotten here sooner."

Clayton nodded, throat tight with emotion. They made their way back, and it wasn't until he was being settled with his back against a saddle by the fire and the hand left him that Clayton noticed Mason had held his arm the whole way. He closed his eyes, missing the warmth at his side, but relishing the support at his back. Clayton slumped against the saddle and focused on steadying his heart, which was pounding far too fast for such a short excursion.

A short while later he heard Arabella and Miriam returning from whatever task they had been completing. He looked up to see Miriam bringing a bowl and a water satchel over to him with an easy smile.

“How you feeling this morning Mr. Sharpe?” She handed the food over, which proved to be porridge. He glanced at it, knowing he should be feeling hungrier than he was.

“Mighty fine, since y’all are here.” She smiled at his words, before cocking an eyebrow questioningly at his bound arm, and his difficulty balancing the bowl with one hand. “A bit sore.” He admitted, reluctantly. Taking the food had reminded him that his shoulder was still freshly wounded, and he knew he wasn’t doing a good job at hiding the pain he was feeling.

“As can be expected. You’re looking pale, try and eat all that, and drink some water too.”

“Yes ma’am.” Clayton resigned himself to coddling for the next little while, not having the energy to fight it off. Miriam was persistent at the best of times.

“Once you’re done, Arabella and I’ll take a look at your shoulder, make sure it’s stitched and cleaned right.”

Clayton paled, remembering the pain from the last time his shoulder was tended to, and set the bowl aside as a wave of nausea rolled over him. “No offense, Miss Miriam, but you might wanna do that before I eat. Not sure I’ll keep it in me if you’re poking and prodding.”

She looked at him for a long minute, weighing the idea. “Alright. Let me see if Bella can hold off her meal until after it’s done too.” She took Clayton’s bowl back, scraping it into the pot to keep it warm, and a short moment later returned with Arabella at her side.

“Alright Clay, let’s see that wound.”

Clayton started awkwardly unbuttoning his shirt with one clumsy hand, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder. Miriam tutted and brushed his hands aside, shooting him a look when he protested. “Don’t give me that face, I can do this faster than you and this way you won’t strain your shoulder.” He quieted and let her work, avoiding looking at her face. Both Arabella and Miriam had seen him without a shirt and helped him with wounds before, but it wasn’t a situation he was comfortable with.

Miriam helped him shrug the shirt off his left side, exposing his shoulder. His breath hitched with the movement, and he struggled to keep his face neutral. Miriam and Arabella both let out wounded noises when his shirt was gone, then gentle hands traced lightly along his ribs. He flinched back when they reached out to touch his neck, and the hands retreated. He looked resolutely at the ground, hoping his face wouldn’t display the sudden vulnerability he felt.

“Oh, Clayton…” He glanced up and saw a sad look on Arabella’s face, while Miriam’s had gone pinched with anger. “I’ll, I’ll do your shoulder then I want to get a better good look at your neck and your ribs. And your back, bet there’s some bruisin’ there too.” He gave a short nod, gazing off into the distance as Arabella unwound the bandage and started prodding at his shoulder. She was gentle, but the touch still brought dormant pain back to life. His stomach flipped, as he had expected, but the nausea stayed at a manageable level. It was over quickly, and Arabella declared that it looked like it was healing fine despite the less-than-ideal circumstances it had been bandaged in. She quickly checked his splinted arm and the cuts on his head and wrists, replacing and tightening any bandages that had come loose overnight.

“Ok, let’s see the rest, shirt off your other shoulder too, just leave it above the elbow.” Arabella’s voice was soft but insistent. He was too tired for this, didn’t want to bother with it. Not like they could do anything about bruises.

He didn’t move, and resolutely met her gaze. “It’s fine. I don’t think it needs to be seen, it’ll heal just fine. No need to bother.” They both shot him looks of exasperation but didn’t leave. He sighed and shook his head. “Ok, fine, goddammit.” He pulled the rest of the shirt away from his body, exposing all of his chest and back. Arabella clucked and started taking stock, Miriam moving to his back to do the same. Clayton closed his eyes and let them work, a lull coming over him.

It didn’t last long before he heard a strangled sound from nearby and looked up in time to see Mason slowly turn beet-red, eyes scanning his torso and taking in the bruises. He came closer, circling around to see his back. _Surely it’s not that bad…_ Clayton glanced down and winced at the mass of bruises on his ribs and chest. He hadn’t been beat up this bad in a long time. Hands that were far too big to be Miriam’s traced something on his back before he felt the displacement of air that signaled Mason had moved. Footsteps stomped away, and he turned his head to see Mason making his way furiously into the copse of trees. He flinched at the sound of breaking sticks and swearing that followed.

“Don’t mind him, honey, he’s just upset we didn’t get here sooner.” Miriam’s voice was soothing, and it was only after she spoke that he realized he had started to curl into himself. He forced himself to relax as the examination ended, and Miriam helped him re-button his shirt. Arabella stopped her from buttoning it past his collarbone. 

“Let’s leave your collar open, it won’t help to have it buttoned all the way. It doesn’t seem like anything’s broken, but I’m worried about your throat. You’ve got some nasty fingerprints on there.”

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Thank you, ladies. It’s mighty appreciated.” Both of their faces softened, and Miriam patted him on the hand while Arabella smiled.

“Anytime Mr. Clay, anytime. Think you could eat now?”

He smiled weakly, any hunger he felt before completely dissipated. “I’ll give it a try.” Miriam refilled his bowl and brought it back, while Arabella returned to her abandoned meal. Between the ache in his shoulder, his broken nose, and the rawness at the edges of his mouth from the gag, eating was a slow and painful affair. Food didn’t seem to make his nausea worse, but he still set the meal aside after finishing half the bowl, too tired and disinterested to continue. He focused on drinking water, knowing that he couldn’t do without.

Despite not eating much, the food cleared his head somewhat, and he took a moment to observe the rest of the group and see how they had fared after the fight from the night before. Everyone looked tired and a bit antsy. There was a nasty bruise on Aly’s face, and he was limping more than usual. Miriam had a bandage wound around her arm. Arabella had a spray of blood across the front of her blouse, and it took him a moment to recognize the pattern as arterial spray. _Guess I know who slit Joe’s throat, _he thought, pride bringing a smile to his face. It quickly faded into guilt over the danger he had put the others in, and the hurts they had suffered.

Approaching footsteps signalled Mason’s return. He hesitated before coming over and crouching in front of Clayton. “Apologies for the outburst, Clayton. Don’t know what came over me.” He scanned Clayton’s throat, and a flash of something Clayton couldn’t parse out darkened his face before he once again made eye contact. “Just angry at you being hurt, I suppose. And once again thanking the Lord we got here in time.”

Clayton flushed, unsure how to respond. “Thank you, Rev’rend. I’ll be ok. Mighty glad you got here in time, too.”

Mason nodded, mouth ticking up in a smile at Clayton’s discomfort before his face grew serious again. “You sure you’re ok to leave today? We could spend another day here, let you heal up a bit.”

Clayton shook his head. “Nah, I’d rather get started. I’ll be fine to ride, won’t be the first time I’ve ridden with some bruises.”

Mason frowned at the thought. “If you’re sure… but you let us know if you need to stop, alright?”

“Yessir, surely will.”

Mason clasped his knee with a big hand then rejoined the circle around the fire, picking up a discarded bowl. The others finish eating quickly, and in the brief conversation that followed it was decided that Mason and Aly were ready to move the bodies while Miriam and Arabella packed up camp. They bustled into action, Mason and Aly tacking up a couple of horses and loading up two others with the bodies while Miriam started collection dishes and Arabella rolled up bedding.

Clayton started to get up bring his bowl over but was quickly stopped when Miriam hustled over and took it from him.

“Sit yourself down, you foolish man. Arabella and I will get this just fine.” She looked down and noticed that the bowl wasn’t empty. “Can’t eat any more?”

“Sorry Miss Miriam, ain’t that hungry.” She looked disappointed but left him be. Clayton slouched down as far as his grumbling ribs would allow him against the saddle that was his backrest and closed his eyes, letting himself drift once again.

* * *

The rest of the morning seemed to pass in a blur. Arabella brought him over a rough sling fashioned from a cut-up blanket and helped him put it on, which he had to admit eased some of the pain. He took a few minutes to walk unsteadily into the bush to answer the call of nature, uncomfortably aware of Miriam and Arabella trying to keep an eye on him while not crossing too many boundaries. They finished packing up, and Mason and Aly returned just as Miriam and Arabella were starting to saddle up the rest of the horses. It was decided that they’d bring the other men’s animals back with them, to be sold in Deadwood. Clayton stayed quiet throughout, content to let the others plan around him and too tired to engage much. Once everything was packed and ready to go, Clayton made his way over to the horses, gritting his teeth against the aches in his body and waving off all offers of assistance. He’d chosen Lady to ride, hoping she was familiar enough with him that it would make for an easy ride.

“Clay, you sure you’re good to ride?” Arabella asked gently from where she stood beside her own horse. “You could double up with one of us if you need. Or we could wait another day, I suppose.”

Clayton sighed, exasperated. “I sure must look somethin’ terrible if all y’all think I can’t ride. I’ll be fine, it ain’t that bad.” He tried to sound reassuring.

“Well, you do look pretty awful, but ok.” She bit her lip and returned her focus to her horse.

Saddling up once again caused pain to flare in his shoulder and head, echoed now by his ribs and arm. He settled in gingerly, lightly holding the reins with one hand and testing his ankle in the stirrup before shoving the pain into the back of his mind. Not the most comfortable he’d been, but he’d survive. He ignored the worried looks the others were casting about in favour of stroking Lady’s neck. And then they were off, heading towards home.

A few hours went by peacefully, with Miriam chiding Clayton every now and then to drink something from where she rode beside him. Mason had taken up a position close behind them, and had been quiet most of the ride. Arabella and Aly were riding in the front, chattering as though this was a normal excursion for them. While no one was exactly comfortable, there was an air of relief and lightheartedness that had come about after they had left behind the bodies and the blood of the last campsite.

Clayton fought to hide his growing pain and exhaustion as time wore on, but it was a difficult task. It was a bright day, and without a hat he quickly felt the effects of both the heat and the sun in his eyes. His head was pounding and his eyes felt strained, while his shoulder and arm throbbed. Eventually he felt himself grow foggy and had to struggle to stay upright in the saddle. He tried to steady his breathing and focus through the blurred vision, tried to drink more water and pretend that he was fine. _C’mon, keep it together. Don’t fall asleep, gotta make it back home. _He rested his hand against his saddle to hide the shaking and was glad that Lady was steady enough to follow the others when he spaced out. But gradually, so gradually he hardly noticed, he stopped being aware of his surroundings. Stopped hearing the others, stopped being able to feel his hands, and then his whole body. Distantly he knew he should be concerned, should stop and tell the others, but by then it felt far too difficult. He felt his hand drop the reins, just as a voice came from beside him.

“Clayton honey, you ok? You’re lookin’ might pale… “

“Shit, Miriam, he’s gonna pass out, stop his horse – “

Lady slowed, another horse whickered, and then someone was touching his leg. Then he was crumbling forward against Lady’s neck, sliding and falling into someone’s arms, and everything went dark.

* * *

Snippets of sensation filtered through, pieces here and there. Pain from his arm as it was jostled then bound tighter against his chest. Something squeezing his midsection while someone hummed close by his head. The rocking motion of a horse and sweat trickling down his brow. Light stabbing into his eyes, and a voice rumbling against his back. Static and an exhaustion that made his limbs impossible to move, interspersed with a blissful nothingness.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he regained lucidity. They were moving. He was in a saddle, slumped back against someone’s chest with his head on their shoulder. An arm was wrapped snugly around his waist, thumb smoothing a path on his ribs. It felt comforting, not restricting like he would have expected. _‘S kinda like that dream I had…_ He was warm, and his thoughts were slow and syrupy. After a few minutes he opened his eyes and tilted his head to see who was holding him. It was Mason, face close to his, a hint of a relieved smile on his face as he glanced down and met Clayton’s gaze.

“Clayton? You awake?” His voice rumbled through Clayton like the purr of a cat.

Clayton hummed in response, shifting in the saddle. He moved to sit up and released a small groan before slumping back against Mason, instantly reminded of his injuries. His body felt impossibly heavy and slow, and he knew he was too weak to support himself for long. He wet his lips and tried to speak, voice cracking. “Yeah, ‘m awake.”

“Good.” The relief in Mason’s tone was palpable. “Was worried you wouldn’t come to.”

“What happened?” Clayton closed his eyes again, hoping it would help him focus easier on the conversation.

“You damn well should’ve told us you needed to stop is what happened. Passed out in the saddle a good long while ago, you’ve been pretty out of it since.” Mason’s arm briefly tightened around his waist before relaxing. “We didn’t want to stop in case you were taking a turn for the worse, wanted to get you back to the doctor in Deadwood.”

“Makes sense.”

“Mhm. Now what don’t make sense is you not telling us you could use a break. Clayton… you said you would tell me if you needed to stop.” The tone of disappointment made Clayton want to squirm.

“’M sorry.” He swallowed against the onrush of guilt, furious at his own weakness. “Thought I could hold on. I’ll do better next time, won’t pass out.”

“Clay. You don’t have to hold on, not right now. We would’ve understood.” His voice was quiet and serious. “You passing out isn’t the problem. It’s that you should have told us far before it hit that point.”

Clayton frowned. “But I – “

“But nothing. You don’t have to be strong right now, Clay. You’re hurt, and it’s going to take time to heal. Trust us, ok? We’ve got your back. Let us help you.”

Clayton clenched his eyes further shut as tears threatened to emerge at the rush of emotion swept over him. _What’s wrong with you, he’s just bein’ nice. Ain’t nothing to cry over. _He swallowed roughly, trying to steady his voice. “I know you do. I’ll try.”

“Ok. Ok, Clay. I know you will.” Mason’s voice dropped into a soothing tone as he squeezed Clayton again briefly, and Clayton wasn’t sure he had been successful in hiding his emotions. A flush of embarrassment crept up his face unbidden. When Mason spoke again, Clayton could hear a hint of laughter in his voice. “I can’t promise that you won’t get a lecture from Miriam, though. Don’t think I’ve ever heard her swear so much.”

Clayton smiled, grateful for the change of subject. “Don’t doubt that.”

Mason hummed in agreement and let the conversation drop. Clayton was frustrated to find that even the short conversation left him feeling drained, and he waited a few minutes before opening his eyes again to get a sense of their surroundings. It seemed to be late afternoon going by the light, but he couldn’t tell where they were. Nothing was familiar. _To be expected, not like you saw anything yesterday. _Miriam and Arabella were riding up ahead, and he assumed that Aly was behind them with the line of extra horses. Nobody seemed to have noticed their conversation, and he was ok with it staying that way for now. His gaze flickered down, noticing again the bandage on Mason’s hand where it was holding the reins. He reached out and touched it, hand feeling heavy and slow. Mason stiffened behind him at the contact.

“You got hurt…”

“Not so much, just forgot myself and cut up my hand a bit last night. Nothing to worry about.”

Clayton dropped his hand back into his lap, feeling guilty again. “’M sorry you got hurt. ‘S my fault, this whole damn thing is my fault. If I’d been more careful – “

“Stop.” Mason’s voice was stern. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault but those men lying back there in the dirt. And I’m fine, it was my own damn fault for using my fists.”

“The bounty was on my head, that makes it my fault, my responsibility.”

Mason squeezed him around the waist again, shaking him lightly. “No, it doesn’t. Good Lord, you’re a stubborn man. Quit taking responsibility for something that isn’t yours to carry.”

Clayton fell quiet, exhaustion washing back over him. He understood what Mason was saying but couldn’t help but feel guilty. If he hadn’t been in Deadwood, if he hadn’t have had a price on his head, none of them would have been put in danger on his account. Clayton knew he’d carry that mistake with him, and could only hope that he would be able to use it to be better, be faster, be smarter in the future. _Can’t let them get put in danger on account of me again. I ain’t worth it. _He closed his eyes, feeling miserable.

“I mean it, Clay. You’re our friend, you’re important to us. We’ll come for you every time, if we need to. And I know you’d do the same for any of us.” Mason shifted Clayton further back into his embrace and tucked his chin over Clayton’s head. Clayton couldn’t help but flush as his heart warmed and the misery receded.

“Thank you.” His throat was tight, and he couldn’t say any of the other things he wanted to. Things like _I know, _and _you’re important to me too, _and_ I can’t stand that I made you unsafe._

Mason nodded against his head, and Clayton could’ve sworn he felt lips brush against his hair. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Clayton drifted in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the ride, despite his best attempts to stay awake. He was too tired and too sore, and awareness kept sliding out of his grasp. It was evening and they had stopped moving when Mason nudging him properly awake. Miriam was beside them, a look of relief on her face, and Clayton sensed that he had just missed a conversation. Going by the sun, it hadn’t been more than a few hours since he had first woken up being supported by the other man. Clayton dragged himself upright while Mason dismounted, then slid off the horse himself, forcing quaking muscles into submission. Pins and needles rushed into his extremities as blood started to circulate again, and he stumbled towards the remains of a campfire, followed closely by Mason. He ignored the concerned glances from the others, but knew he’d have to face them sooner or later.

Mason watched him settle against a tree before heading back to the horses after Clayton waved him off. Clayton took a moment to look around, and realized they were in the same spot as the night he had attempted to escape. He spotted dried blood on the ground a few feet away and froze as his vision tunneled. Blood rushed through his ears and his heart started pounding, panic sweeping over him like a tidal wave. _Stop, calm your shit, you’re fucking FINE – _he closed his eyes and tried to breath, focusing on the pain in his ribs at each inhale. He clenched his hands together hard, feeling the bite of nails into his palm and the flare of angry bones. The pain provided a welcome distraction, wrenching him out of the well he’d fallen into. The sound of voices and horses being settled met his ears, and gradually his heart settled. _See? It’s just a bit of blood, don’t be a pussy. _He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding as tension drained away, leaving behind a hollow buzzing in his chest. He unclenched his hands and glanced around the clearing, pleased to see that none of the others seemed to have noticed.

Clayton forced himself to look around, taking in the familiar sight despite the way it made his nerves jump. _Maybe I can find my hat again… _Making his way to his feet, he staggered in the direction of the trees where Bill’s horses had been tied a few nights prior. Voices called out but he waved them off, resolute in his path.

Quieter, then, Aly’s voice reached him. “Hold on, I’ve got him.” Shortly after Aly was jogging up beside him, gently grabbing his arm and pulling him to a halt. “Whoa there Clayton, where are you going? Ain’t nothing that way but some trees.”

“Not going anywhere, just need to find something.” Clayton gritted his teeth and pulled his arm free, then kept limping forward. Aly made a noise of protest beside him, and Clayton turned to look at him. “Look, you can come if you want, shouldn’t take long.”

“Alright.” Clayton turned and resumed walking. “What’re you lookin’ for, two sets of eyes are better than one.”

Clayton took a moment to answer, scanning the ground in front of him. He couldn’t remember how far he had run before it’d been knocked off his head. “My hat.”

“Your hat? Why would your hat be all the way out here?”

“Fell off.”

“It fell off? Here? We’re pretty far off the trail, Clay.” The doubt in Aly’s voice was clear.

Clayton whirled around, a snarl on his face. “Yes, Aloysius, here. I ain’t some goddamn fool who can’t keep his mind straight, ok?” His anger deflated at the look on Aly’s face, a mix of caution and confusion. “Sorry. Look, I… I tried to make a break for it day ‘fore yesterday. We’d made camp here. M’ hat fell off somewhere up this way, and I want it back.”

“Alright then.” Aly let out a sigh. “Sorry I doubted you. We’ll get it back, don’t you worry. Want me to get the others, we can look while you sit?”

“No thanks, rather find it myself.”

“Ok. But at least let me help, you look like you’re about to fall over.” Clayton sighed and agreed, already out of breath from the short walk. Aly dragged Clayton’s arm over his shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. Clayton was tired enough that it was worth the pain in his shoulder. They started up the hill, moving slowly and stopping every few minutes for Clayton to catch his breath. It wasn’t long before Aly nudged him and pointed, a grin splitting his face.

“Think I see it! Just stay here a moment, I’ll be back.” And was off, striding far quicker than Clayton could move. Clayton waited dutifully while he walked ahead, only to return a moment later carrying Clayton’s lost hat. He smiled and handed it over, and Clayton couldn’t help but grin back as he settled it back on his head, feeling slightly less naked now that he had it back.

“Well look there, got a damn good set o’ eyes on you Mr. Fogg. Mighty appreciated.”

“My pleasure Mr. Sharpe.” They started the slow trek back, and it was a moment before Aly spoke up hesitantly. “Listen, Clayton… I know the others have probably said the same, but I’m damn glad we found you, and alive no less. Just wanted you to hear it from me too.”

Clayton ducked his head. “Mighty glad you found me too. I can’t thank you enough. Think I’d be dead by now if it weren’t for y’all.”

“No need to thank me. I know you’d do the same, and I can’t help but feel I owe you after that mess way back when.”

Clayton stopped, tugging Aly to a halt with him. “Aly, you don’t owe me a goddamn thing. That’s over, done with. And if you ever did? Consider it repaid threefold.”

Aly nodded and they continued walking. Once they were closer to the camp, he turned to Clayton and grinned. “Glad we had our emotional moment, Miriam would be so proud. Right afore she shoots me for lettin’ you walk that far.”

Clayton snorted and shook his head. “That woman will be the death of me with all her worryin’.”

Aly laughed. “Lucky for us, you’re damn hard to kill!” Clayton smiled ruefully in agreement.

They continued into camp, and Aly deposited him near the old fire pit before returning to help the others. Clayton let himself lie back in the dirt, giving himself a moment to catch his breath and try and settle the throbbing in his head and his arm. The walk had sapped him of what little energy he had, and he was grateful for the quiet moment to rest.

It wasn’t long before he heard someone approaching, and the sound of a throat being cleared. He looked up and sure enough, there was Miriam, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. He sat up with a sigh, and she knelt beside him so they were at eye level. Despite being much smaller than him, Miriam was intimidating as hell when she wanted to be, and the full force of her disappointment was leveled at him.

“Alright, give it to me. I know you got a good lecture built up.”

She swatted his arm. “You’re damn right I do! What were you thinking, letting yourself get so bad you passed out on your damn horse! You’re damn lucky the Reverend caught you in time. And now, going for a walk? You could have just told us your hat was up there and we’d have gone looking. You’re white as a sheet again, and don’t think I don’t see you shaking.”

She was right. Clayton hadn’t even noticed, but sure enough his hand was trembling when he looked down. “I’m sorry, Miss Miriam. Didn’t think I was that bad this morning. Didn’t mean to pass out, won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t, you aren’t getting back on a horse by yourself for a good long while.” He looked up, protest on his lips. “Don’t give me sass, I know you’d push yourself again. At least with you riding double there’s someone to catch you if you do pass out.”

He sighed in resignation. “Ok, Miss Miriam. Whatever you say.”

“And no more walks in the woods, you hear?” Her voice softened. “You’ve got to heal before you push yourself too hard, honey.”

“I… I know. I just needed to go for myself. Can’t explain why. Just needed to do it.” He couldn’t meet her gaze, not able to take the kindness in her eyes. He already felt raw and exposed, and right now Miriam’s mothering was only making it worse.

“Ok, sugar. I understand. But you tell us next time, ok?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She pulled him into a quick hug, which he hesitantly returned. “I just don’t want you to get worse, that’s all. I’ve been so worried the last few days, we had no idea if we’d even catch up to you. And then with you bein’ so hurt…” her voice trailed away, thick with emotion. Miriam ended the hug, and they sat quietly for a moment before she continued, voice steady once more. “I’ll stop, though, I’ve said my piece. I will say though, Aly said your hat got dropped because you tried to get away – I am impressed, Mr. Sharpe. Not sure how you ran with your injuries, but I’m not surprised you tried.”

He grinned ruefully. “Not like it did me much good, didn’t get very far before they caught up. That’s where most of it comes from – they thrashed me good for it.”

She smiled back grimly. “That does make more sense. Well, I’m sorry they caught you.”

“Me too, Miss Miriam. Me too.”

* * *

Evening fell quickly, after his lecture, and before long Aly was pressing a bowl of stew into his hands as they all sat around the fire. It was companionable and close, and the presence of his people was almost enough for Clayton to ignore the way his skin crawled whenever he paid too much attention to the clearing around them. Luckily time passed quickly, and Clayton managed most of his food before he felt himself nodding off. The bowl was pried gently from his hands, then someone was helping him to his feet and guiding him over to a bedroll. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open, and his guide gently coaxed his duster and sling off. And then he was gone, passing out before his head hit the pillow.

_Clayton’s dream was full of shadows and voices, Bill thundering as Mac laughed in the distance. He was running, but kept stumbling, even as he felt hands grasping for his throat. A gunshot echoed in his ears and his arm was on fire, hands fumbling as he ripped at branches to clear his path. They were close, they were going to **catch him** – _

“Clayton?”

He woke with a start, heart pounding and covered in sweat. _They’re here, they’re coming for us, it’s not safe –_

“You awake?” It was Matthew, crouching beside him, face dark in the moonlight.

"Matthew. Bill - the big one – he’s coming. It's not, it's not safe -" Clayton gasped out, eyes darting around wildly, grabbing at Mason’s shirt with one clawed hand. Matthew untangled his hand and held it, grip firm.

"Hey. Breathe. He's dead, Clay. Remember? You're safe, they're not here, they're dead and they ain't coming back. Just breathe, you’re ok.”

“Matthew, we gotta go, you ain’t safe, I can’t keep you safe – “

“Hey, hey.” A hand smoothed through his hair. “Look at me, Clayton. I’m ok. I’m safe, we’re all safe. They ain’t coming for us.”

Clayton leaned into the touch, focusing his whole attention on Mason’s words. _Safe. _The dream drained away, bringing back the memory of where they were. The panic faded, the crushing exhaustion returned, and he quickly felt himself slip back under. His breath evened out and his eyelids grew heavy again.

“That’s it. You’re ok. Go back to sleep, I’ve got you.”

He fell back asleep with Mason’s voice in his ear, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don’t even know what’s happening here anymore. Apparently all the talks about feelings, and all of Clayton’s guilt. Maybe someday they’ll eventually make it back to Deadwood, but today is not that day, because I can’t write concisely to save my life. 
> 
> Hopefully nobody is too ooc - Clayton's concussion (a common part of which is emotional lability) is definitely playing into his emotional and physical well-being at the moment
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope y’all enjoyed it!! Comments and kudos are highly appreciated!


	5. Returning Home (The Second Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has a rough morning, but everyone is trying their best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter, y’all are amazing!! Hope everyone had a lovely holidays. 
> 
> I’m not suuuper happy with this chapter, but am very tired of editing it, so figured I’d post it anyway. Hope y'all are ready for more pining. 
> 
> The tags, they just keep on growing. 
> 
> Specific chapter warnings: Issues with food, and more vomit, y’all. In more detail. Sorry (shrugs). Also, more trauma responses, panic and flashbacks and the like. Clayton gets triggered and it does not go well. More field medicine too, because gosh I apparently love to beat the absolute shit out of this character.

The feeling of safety that came from waking up with Mason there to beside him didn’t last throughout the night. Clayton slept fitfully, waking often from a disorienting gamut of nightmares featuring his captors, his recent beating, and the Dealer. In more than one his companions were in danger, and he was helpless to stop any harm from coming to them, held back by hands tight around his arms or his throat. Most often he was running, being chased down by Bill and Mac or shadowy demonic creatures. Each time he woke it took a moment for him to recall the recent rescue, and longer for the adrenaline and fear to fade from his limbs. The first few times he awoke Mason was there to reassure him, hands still held tightly together. But then Mason’s watch ended, and although he bedded down close to Clayton it didn’t seem to help. The next time Clayton woke, he tried his best to keep quiet, not wanting to disturb the others. Instead he would check and confirm that he knew the person on watch before curling back up to try and slow his rapidly beating heart. Several times he was shaken awake by Miriam or Arabella, both of whom sat quietly with him until he’d stopped shaking, then would calmly resume their watch.

It was shortly before dawn when he awoke from yet another nightmare to find Aly crouched beside him, hands stretched out towards him. He startled back, shifting out of his reach, heart pounding out of his chest. Aly withdrew, giving him a barely visible concerned look.

“Hey, sorry, was just gonna wake you, looked like a mighty unpleasant dream. You okay?” His voice was a whisper.

Clayton nodded, throat too tight to speak, body still wound tightly away from the other man. Aly frowned in response. “It’s okay to not be okay, you know. Don’t have to be fine right now.”

Clayton shook his head and struggled to sit up from amongst his tangled bedding, still keeping his distance. “M okay. ‘S just a bad dream, ain’t nothin.”

Aly’s frown didn’t dissipate. “Okay. Sure. Did you want to talk about it though?” Clayton shook his head. “Think you can go back to sleep? Mighty early still, and you look a little like death warmed over.”

“Don’t think so. Not like I’m getting’ much sleep anyway, may as well keep watch for a bit, let you get some shut-eye.”

Aly looked him over slowly, the scrutiny making Clayton want to hide. “Alright. Keep me company then, ain’t like I’m going back to sleep this early either.” He got up and led the way over to the small fire. Clayton followed, bringing a blanket for warmth and settling his hat on his head. Despite the companionable silence, Clayton’s nerves were raw. He found himself startling at noises in the brush, and ignoring the calculating look Aly gave him each time it occurred. He was ready to leave this spot, keep on their way, but it wasn’t time yet. He kept glancing at the hills, expecting to see someone coming for them despite knowing that there was no one chasing them. His nervousness soon mixed strangely with exhaustion as the restless night caught up with him, body both heavy and tense with energy at the same time. He found himself fidgeting to try and keep himself awake, not wanting to endure another nightmare. If Aly noticed he didn’t comment, instead choosing to keep quiet in the early morning air.

About a half hour after sunrise Aly stretched then got up, going to a pack and rummaging about. He pulled out a metal pot and spoon with a wide grin. “Alright, time to wake these layabouts up, see if we can’t get some good miles in before it’s too hot out.” He walked towards the others and started raucously clanging the spoon against the pot. Clayton flinched at the assault on his eardrums as his head started throbbing anew.

“C’mon, folks, time to get up! Daylight’s a wasting!” A chorus of curses and groans rose up around them. Clayton watched as a slim hand belonging to Arabella stuck out from a bedroll and groped around on the ground until it found a boot, before chucking it in Aly’s direction. Aly danced neatly out of the way, letting out a booming laugh at her grumbling. Clayton smiled at their antics, trying to let himself settle into the lightheartedness with minimal success. The combination of the nightmares, lack of sleep, and the place itself had planted deep roots of discomfort that he couldn’t seem to shake off.

The noises of camp in the morning rose up as the others crawled their way out of bedrolls and started getting ready for the day. Aly wandered off towards the small stream, and soon made his way back with the pot full of water. He retrieved a package of oats from one of the saddlebags and mixed the two together, placing it on the fire and starting to stir. Clayton got up and approached him.

“Here, let me do that. I’m feeling mighty useless, and sittin’ and stirrin’ a pot is the least I can do to help out.” Aly gave him another assessing look before smiling and handing over the spoon.

“Thank you, Mr. Clay, I’ll just go see about our bedding then. Don’t strain that shoulder stirrin’ too much though.” He got up and moved away, leaving Clayton alone at the fire. He hoped that having something to do would help him feel less jittery and tried to focus the whole of his attention on the simple task of tending the porridge. In the back of his mind he noted the pull of the motions on his shoulder and wrist, both of which felt sore and tender. His hand was a bit numb, but he could hold the spoon well enough, and he soon felt his hands steady and gut unclench with the meditative task.

The sounds of morning continued around him for a time. Eventually footsteps from behind warned him of another’s approach, but he still jumped when a hand touched his shoulder, shying away from the touch. Instantly the tenseness was back, dissipating little when he saw that it was only Miriam. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, then unclenched his jaw and worked to bring his shoulders down from where they’d risen to his ears.

“Good morning, Clayton. You’re up early, more nightmares?” She scanned his face, taking in the circles under his eyes. He ducked under his hat, avoiding her gaze and focusing back on the porridge.

“Mornin’ Miss Miriam. Nah, just couldn’t sleep.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily, although he couldn’t pinpoint why he felt the need to hide the nightmares from her.

“Mhm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Well, ain’t no shame in bad dreams. It’s not like that’s something you can control, anyhow.” He nodded but didn’t respond otherwise. She sat down beside him, reaching for the spoon. “How about I take over for you, and you go get Arabella to check your bandages for you?”

Clayton groaned at the prospect, moving the spoon out of her reach. “I’m sure they’re just fine. Not like checkin’ them will make any difference.”

Miriam smiled. “Humor me anyway. You need the sling back on too.”

He sighed. “After breakfast. Porridge’ll be done soon anyhow.”

“Okay.” She bumped his shoulder lightly with her own, then stood up to go search out their mess kit. A few minutes later the others were joining them by the fire, and Miriam was nudging him out of the way to remove the pot from the fire and spoon out portions.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, everyone tired and focusing on their food. Clayton found that once again his appetite had fled, and he managed only half of his portion before nausea curled in his throat.

“Rev’rend, you want some more?” He nudged Mason, who had settled beside him, and quietly offered him the rest of his bowl. Mason glanced at it before looking at him and frowning.

“No, you go ahead. You need to eat more, Clay. You hardly touched it.” He nudged the bowl back towards Clayton, who sighed.

“Ain’t hungry. Aly? You want the rest of mine?” He called across the fire, holding out his bowl again. Aly’s grin at the prospect of more food fell off his face as Miriam smacked him when he started to get up to take it.

“You sit back down Aloysius! Clayton, can’t you eat more? You haven’t finished a meal since we found you, and that’s not even considering’ that you didn’t eat any lunch yesterday. You need to eat, your body needs food to heal.”

Clayton flushed and ducked further into his collar, hiding from her beneath the brim of his hat. “Sorry Miss Miriam. Ain’t hungry, that’s all.” His voice was quiet.

Mason spoke up beside him, tone gentle. “We’re just worried, Clay. You’ve lost weight, and Lord knows you don’t have a lot to lose.” He reached out and gently touched Clayton’s knee, leaning down to make eye contact. “Can you try and at least eat a bit more? You’ll probably feel better later if you do.”

Clayton grimaced, eyes falling back onto his bowl. He looked back around the fire, only to drop his gaze again, unable to take all the encouraging looks from the people around him.

“Please?” Miriam’s voice was soft and hopeful. He sighed and nodded, pulling the bowl back in.

“Good man.” Mason squeezed his knee before withdrawing and returning to his meal.

Clayton sat and stared at his bowl, trying to quell his stomach unsuccessfully. _Nothing to it, just gotta finish it. _Jaw tight, he picked up his spoon. He managed three bites before the nausea returned with a vengeance, curling in his stomach and rising into his throat. He tried to swallow and hold it down but couldn’t stop the wash of acid that rose.

Stumbling to his feet, bowl clattering to the ground and spilling the rest of the meal, he made it halfway to the nearby brush before falling to his knees and vomiting. Expletives rang out from behind him accompanied by the sounds of hurried movement. Watery porridge splattered the ground in front of him, and he heaved again, bringing up bile and water. Someone tugged his hat off before pulling his hair back and away from his face, then a broad hand was smoothing over his back. He gasped for air, coughing as acid caught on the back of his throat, before hurling again. There was nothing left in him to expel, but he continued to dry heave, ribs screaming with the effort. All the while the hand smoothed over his back, while another held back his hair.

Eventually the dry heaving slowed to a halt, and he slumped back and away from the mess, shaking and swearing. Someone tugged him to rest against their body, arm holding him up. Clayton wiped his mouth with his sleeve, only then recognizing that tears were streaming down his face. A damp cloth was pressed into his hand, and he wiped the rest of his face off. Arabella, kneeling beside him, traded the cloth for a water satchel. He rinsed his mouth, spitting out the sour taste of acid from his mouth. Finally Clayton looked behind him, recognizing that he was once again resting against Mason’s broad form, supported by an arm tucked neatly behind his back. Arabella took the water satchel gently from his grasp.

“You all done?” Her voice was soft and kind. He nodded, and she helped him to his feet. Mason quickly followed suit and took his arm, steering him back towards the fire. Once he was seated again with Mason a solid weight at his side, Miriam came and knelt in front of him, mouth pinched with regret and worry.

“Clayton, you alright?” He nodded, still too nauseated to speak. “I… I’m so sorry I pushed; I wouldn’t have if I thought…” She reached out and touched his cheek, directing his gaze towards her face. “Will you tell us, next time, if you’re feeling sick?”

Clayton cleared his throat and grimaced at the taste in his mouth. “I’ll try.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask.” Miriam leaned in and kissed his forehead, smoothing his hair back. He flushed but let her, closing his eyes at the mothering gesture. When she pulled back, Arabella was kneeling beside her. She hesitated, exchanging a glance with Miriam and Mason before once again giving him the water satchel. He could tell he had missed something, most likely some conversation while he’d been vomiting. She waited as he took a drink, and it was a long minute before he finally broke the tense silence.

“Whatever you’ve got to say, spit it out. Ain’t got all day.” More glances were exchanged, then Arabella heaved out a sigh.

“Clay, we think it’d be best if we stayed here for the day, got some rest.” He froze, panic rising back in his chest as his heart started to pound. His hands started shaking. _I can’t stay here again, no fuckin’ way_. Arabella continued, not noticing his distress. “I know you want to keep going, but you just threw up everywhere. And we know you hardly slept last night, you’re not eating, and you’re not looking too great – maybe a day without travel will help, do you some good, then we can continue on tomorrow.”

“No.” He snarled, closing the water satchel and shoving it back into her arms. She startled and took it, confusion plain on her face.

“But – “

“No, we have to go, I ain’t stayin’ here one more goddamn minute than I have to.” Clayton struggled against Mason’s arm around his shoulders, unable to sit still as the flood of panic wound its way through his system. “Get the fuck off me, let me up goddammit!” Mason withdrew and Clayton scrambled to his feet, shakily limping towards the horses. Aly intercepted him, hands raised in a placating manner. Mason ran up and joined him as Clayton drew to a halt.

“Now calm down Clay, ain’t nobody tryin’ to hurt you here. You look like shit, you just threw your guts up over there, and we’re worried you’re gonna keel over on the trail. Another day here won’t hurt you, okay?” His voice was soft but firm.

Clayton glared at him, then squared his shoulders and tried to shoulder past them, throat too tight to speak. Mason caught his shoulder, stopping him and tugging him around to face him.

“Hey, slow down there, let’s talk about this.” He raised a hand and clasped the side of Clayton’s neck, thumb stroking his jaw as he ducked to try and meet his eyes.

At the hand on his neck Clayton’s panic flared white hot, his vision tunneling, mind flashing back to Bill’s hands tightening around his throat. He yanked his head out of Mason’s grasp with a shout, acting on instinct as fear overrode his mind. All he could see was someone threatening him and trying to hold him still. Mason stepped towards him, arm still outstretched as though to hold him. Clayton reached out with both hands and shoved hard at Mason’s chest, heedless of the splint on his arm. Mason stumbled backwards and Clayton turned to run, only to find Aly blocking his path.

Clayton backed away, making it a few steps before his boot met a rock and he found himself tripping over backwards. He twisted and tried to catch himself, remembering too late the splint on his arm. By then it was too late, and he was hitting the ground hard with a thud and a shout, broken arm exploding with pain as it connected with the ground. Clayton’s vision prickled into darkness at the pain, but he wrenched himself back to consciousness. _Gotta stay awake, they’re **here.**_ He tucked the throbbing limb into his chest, curling in on himself and wrapping his good arm around his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself.

Clayton couldn’t slow his heaving lungs, couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He _knew_ they were coming, knew they were going to hurt him again. Footsteps surrounded him and he curled up tighter, the sound of Mac’s laughter ringing through his head. A hand touched his shoulder and he cried out, recoiling with a jerk. The hand withdrew and the footsteps retreated.

Clayton had no idea how long he lay there, shaking apart in the dirt, whole body screaming with pain. His arm had gone numb with pain, heavy and impossible to move. He heard light shuffling, then a soothing, warm weight was draped over his body. _A blanket. _He huddled further underneath, seeking cover. _They wouldn’t cover me up with a blanket. _Gradually the sound of a woman’s voice trickled into his ears, and his awareness expanded beyond the tunnel of panic he had found himself in. She was murmuring soothing nonsense, a stream of “you’re okay, you’re safe, we’ve got you, nobody’s gonna hurt you, everything’s fine” nonstop. He relaxed into the dirt, body unclenching as he listened for sounds of danger. All he could hear was the voice murmuring consistently, and some whispers he couldn’t make out in the distance.

Clayton finally cracked his eyes open, peering up at the woman nearby. It was Miriam. She was sitting in front of him on the ground, about five feet away, and looked like she’d been crying. The memory of Bill and co. faded, and recognition flooded back in. _Shit, I made Miriam cry… _guilt bloomed hot in his stomach, intensifying when he realized all that had happened. He’d hurt Mason, had pushed him, and had yelled at all of them. _After all they’ve done for you, _a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Miriam finally noticed his gaze and gave a small smile when he made eye contact. “Hey, there you are. You’re okay, Clayton. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.” He nodded and broke the gaze.

“’M sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know, sugar. Can you tell me what happened? We… we didn’t mean to upset you.”

Clayton struggled to sit up, limbs struggling to comply. Now that the panic had dissipated, exhaustion rushed back in. His head and shoulder ached, and his arm was a sickening throb of white-hot pain. Miriam moved closer and reached out to help, stalling and biting her lip when he shied away from her.

“Sorry,” he whispered, reaching out a tentatively and taking her hand. She held on tightly, relief flashing across her face. He resolutely controlled another flinch. “Sorry, it’s fine, didn’t mean it. I just, just panicked.” He looked at the ground, trying to tamp down on the panic that was threatening to re-emerge. “I don’t know what happened. But I, I shouldn’t have yelled or hurt ya’ll.”

“You didn’t hurt us. And I think we’ll all survive a bit of yelling. You just took us by surprise. We didn’t think you’d be so angry at us wanting to stay here for a day, we’ve done it before and it’s been fine.” She paused and wiped at her eyes. “We’re not angry, we just want to understand.”

“I _can’t_ stay here. _I just can’t. _I know that sounds crazy, but this place… I just can’t.” His voice was raw and desperate. “I don’t know why. But we have to go.”

“Okay, Clayton. Okay.” They sat for a few moments as Clayton tried to regain his composure before Miriam spoke again, voice hesitant. “Is it because of what happened here? When you tried to get away?” Something clenched in Clayton’s chest and he closed his eyes before nodding reluctantly. She squeezed his hand tightly in hers. “I understand not wanting to stay in a place you were hurt. Then we’ll go, see how far we make it.” He sagged with relief, squeezing back. “But if we need to, we’ll stop, okay? Just not here.”

“Deal.” He tried for a smile, and her face brightened minutely. “Thank you. And Miriam – I’m sorry I made you cry.”

“Oh honey.” Her voice was unbearably gentle. “You didn’t make me cry. I was crying because of what happened to you, not what you did.” He flinched away, letting go of her hand. She touched his arm lightly under the blanket. “So don’t go apologizing for something you didn’t do.”

He nodded, and Miriam sat back, having said her piece. Clayton sat up straighter and looked around for the others. They hovered some few feet beyond Miriam, clearly having been listening to the conversation. Arabella gave him a worried smile, hands wringing together continuously as she started walking towards them. Aly’s face was calm, a considering look on his face, but he smiled when Clayton made eye contact. But Mason… Mason looked furious. His face was dark, anger mixed with other emotions that Clayton couldn’t identify, and he was pointedly looking away. Clayton hunched into his collar and dropped his gaze, face flushing with shame over his behaviour despite Miriam’s words.

“Still, I’m sorry. To all of you. Shouldn’t have acted like that, was right ungentlemanly of me. Sorry I scared you.”

Arabella sat down beside Miriam and leaned into the other woman, who put an arm around her shoulders. Aly followed her over and stood behind them, but Mason simply nodded before he turned and stalked off towards their gear. Clayton tried not to watch him go, heart sinking into his chest.

“Ain’t no reason to be sorry,” Aly said. “Seems like you weren’t in your right mind, makes sense that you’d lash out.” He cocked his hat, scratching at his head. “I think we scared you worse than you scared us.”

Clayton grinned ruefully. “Still, ain’t right to be yelling. I… I know y’all are just trying to help. I don’t know what came over me, why I freaked out like that.”

Arabella piped up next. “Clay… you got hurt, and you’re still hurt. It makes sense that you’d try and protect yourself when you were scared.”

“And hey, maybe we can try not to crowd you next time. Doubt that helped things much.” Aly laughed. “Now how’s about we start packin’ up, since we ain’t stayin’ here?” Clayton was grateful for the change of topic and Aly’s quick acceptance of the situation.

“Sure thing. Just, just give me a moment then I’ll join in.”

Miriam tutted. “You just stay here. We’ll get everything ready, shouldn’t take us too long.” Clayton nodded, knowing he would need a few moments to regain his composure. The others withdrew, already bickering about who would take care of what chore. Drawing the blanket up around him, Clayton closed his eyes and tried to focus away from the flutter of anxiety that wouldn’t seem to let him be.

* * *

It was a short while later that Arabella called his name, making her way towards him with her now-familiar medical kit in hand. He frowned at the sight of it.

“Alright Mr. Clay, I need to see to that arm before we get going, make sure it’s okay. Should check your bandages too.” She sat beside him and opened the medical kit. He grimaced and held out his arm gingerly, not wanting to protest and face further scolding from her or Miriam. Taking his arm gently, Arabella unwrapped the splint, probing with slim fingers along the break. Clayton felt the blood drain from his face at the agony that flared to life, sparking all up and down his arm.

It was a few minutes before Arabella swore breathlessly. “Shit.” She prodded at the limb for another minute before she looked up at him and bit her lip. “I think you broke it again. I mean, not a new break, you just bumped things out of place again. It ain’t too bad, but… we can’t leave it, it’ll never heal right.” Clayton paled further and drew the arm into his chest, dizzy with the prospect of having to re-set the bone. She looked around for the others. “Matthew? Aly? Can one of you come give me a hand? I need to re-set his arm, need someone to hold him.”

A whispered conversation, too quiet for Clayton to make out, drifted towards them. Looking over, he saw Aly hiss something at Mason, who shook his head, before Aly started to make his way towards them, face drawn. Clayton hunched into himself again, shoving down the upset that bloomed at Mason’s refusal to come over. Aly gave him an apologetic look then crouched down beside him.

“You okay if I sit behind you?” Clayton nodded, resigned to the situation. Aly moved behind him, pulling Clayton against his chest and wrapping an arm around him. Clayton twitched at the contact but forced himself to relax. Aly wrapped his other hand tight around Clayton’s arm, just under his elbow. Arabella moved in close, holding onto Clayton’s wrist tightly.

“Try not to kick me, okay?” She flashed a smile before re-focusing on his arm. “Alright, hold him still.” And then she was pulling, and the world exploded in pain once more.

It was quick, this time. Nonetheless, by the time she had released the traction Clayton was shaking, sweat pouring off him. Nausea rolled through him, now a familiar sensation, and his head felt staticky and loose.

“Let go, gonna throw up,” he managed to gasp out. Arabella released his arm and Aly leaned him carefully to the side. Clayton heaved, producing only a bit of bile before the nausea abated and he collapsed back against Aly. Arabella checked his arm again with careful fingers, wrapping his arm tightly before splinting it and wrapping it again, checking his pulse all the while.

“We have got to get this plastered as soon as we make it back to Deadwood,” Arabella muttered as she worked. “Can’t be re-setting it every time you jostle it.”

“Sorry,” Clayton gasped out. “I’ll try to stop bein’ a fucking idiot and be more careful.”

Arabella reached out and tapped his cheek in reprimand. “Hey, none of that.” He blinked at her in surprise. “It’s not like you were doing handstands, accidents do happen Mr. Sharpe.”

“Still. I’ll try to be careful. Thank you for seeing to it.” He tapped the arm holding him up. “Thank you too, Aloysius.”

“Happy to help.”

Arabella finished up quickly, then proceeded to unwrap the bandages on his wrists. After a moment she hustled off, returning with a bowl of water and soap. He tried to hold still as she cleaned the wounds.

“I’m a bit worried about your wrists.” Her voice lulled him out of his daze, and he focused his attention on her. “They’re looking a bit red – well, redder than they should be, although it’s hard to tell with all the rope burn.”

“Think they’re infected?” Aly spoke up over his shoulder. Clayton’s heart sunk at the prospect. _Just what I need. _

She frowned. “Hope not. That wouldn’t be good out here. Not much I can do now, though, other than keep them clean. Remind me to wash them again tonight, okay?” He nodded, and she moved on. She cleaned and re-bandaged the graze on his head and the bullet wound before declaring him ready to go.

Aly gently extricated himself and left to retrieve a water satchel from Miriam, who was cleaning up camp in the background and trying very hard to look like she wasn’t paying close attention to them. She wasn’t very successful, shooting worried glances over every few seconds. Clayton didn’t try to find Mason, not wanting to see if he was avoiding looking at Clayton.

Arabella left him with stern orders to sit and rest while they packed up. Clayton took a few moments to sit as the others worked quietly, rinsing his mouth then working to drink small bits of water to re-hydrate from the lost fluids. He was shivery and raw from the excruciating pain, and felt hollow after the tumultuous morning. Despite what the others had said, guilt lingered, and he found himself hoping he could make amends with Mason. The anger on Mason’s face after their altercation sat vividly in his memory. However brief, he noticed the absence of the other man keenly, and the idea of continuing their travel while Mason was angry with him made anxiety flutter in his chest. _I can’t lose him, not now. _Mason was too important to him, and he wasn’t about to lose their friendship over his own stupidity.

Looking around, he quickly found Mason tending one of the horses, pointedly ignoring the rest of the party. After checking to make sure the others were occupied elsewhere, Clayton ambled over as quickly as he could with his injured ankle.

“Matthew… got a moment?” Mason cringed at his voice, hunching in on himself as though trying to hide the bulk of his shoulders. He nodded, darting a glance towards Clayton before focusing back on the horse in front of him. Clayton caught a quick glimpse of his face, which held that strange expression that he couldn’t quite read. The flutter of anxiety became a tornado. Clayton looked away but plowed on, determined to make amends. “Listen, I’m sorry I pushed you. Didn’t mean to lash out, I know you were just trying to help…” He fidgeted with his newly wrapped arm before tucking it against his stomach and holding onto it as tightly as the pain would allow. “I, I know you’re angry, Lord knows I would be too, and I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Mason finally turned to face him. “Oh, Clay.” He sounded heartbroken and raw, and Clayton looked up in time to see him reach out a hand then quickly withdraw it, clenching it into a fist at his side. “No, don’t apologize when I’m the one who hurt _you_.” His face twisted, and Clayton could finally make out the odd expression. It was guilt_. _“I fucked up, I shouldn’t have grabbed you. I know I triggered some sort of response, scared you shitless, and I can’t take that back. But don’t, don’t _apologize_. You didn’t hurt me, not at all.” He finally made eye contact, desperation written across his face. “I just don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Clayton’s heart clenched at the sadness on his face. “I’m not. Matty, it ain’t you.” He tried to pour as much conviction into his voice as he could. “You’re the kindest man I know, I ain’t afraid of you.” He hesitated. “At least, not when I’m in my right mind. But that ain’t on you. That’s on _me_, it’s my head that’s messed up right now. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“But you were _terrified_.” Clayton cringed, ashamed at the fear that had been apparent to everyone else. “I kept pushing, and look what happened – your damn arm got broken again. It’s my fault you got hurt again!” The anger was back now, flashing across Mason’s face. Clayton froze. “I’m not angry at you, I’m angry at myself, angry at _those men._” He spat on the ground, then looked back at Clayton. Clayton’s posture registered, and he deflated with an exhale, anger bleeding from his face. “There I go again. Bound to scare you all over. That’s why I walked away, earlier. I was angry and thought I’d make it worse, and didn’t want you hurt more. And I couldn’t do that. I need you to know that I wouldn’t hurt you intentionally, not ever.”

Clayton willed himself to relax and shook his head, frustrated at his own responses. “I know you wouldn’t. It’s just, when I’m… when I’m scared,” he scowled and spat the word out like it was a curse. “Feels like I forget that.” He gestured towards his neck and saw Mason’s gaze trail over the bruised flesh. “When you, when you grabbed my neck – I don’t know what happened, but it was like it was them all over again.” He couldn’t contain the shudder that ran through his frame at the memory that popped in unbidden. “Maybe I’m going crazy, I don’t know. But it ain’t _you_ I’m afraid of, even when you startle me. Please believe me.”_ And please, please don’t be afraid to touch me,_ he almost begged. _Please don’t think I need you to stay away._

A flicker of understanding crossed Mason’s face, and he nodded. “Okay. I believe you. Still, I am sorry. And we’ll try to do better, not put you in situations like that.” He hesitated, then spoke slowly and tentatively. “You know, I don’t think you’re going crazy – sometimes, in the war, men would talk about things like that. Feeling like they were stuck back in battle, when things had gone wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t really know why, no one ever explained it, but maybe it’s like that.”

Clayton gave a rueful grin. “Maybe. Ain’t like I was at war, though. Just some assholes who were real pissed at me.” He tried to laugh, but it came out strangled and raw. Mason gave him a knowing look. He scrubbed at the back of his neck, desperate to finish the conversation. “We good, though? I ain’t pissed, you ain’t pissed, we’re okay?”

Mason smiled. “Yeah, we’re good. Can I…?” His voice trailed off in a question as he reached his arms tentatively towards Clayton. Clayton nodded warily. Mason stepped closer and pulled him gently into a loose hug. “This okay?”

Clayton nodded, throat tight. He leaned in closer and wrapped an arm around Mason in return, broken arm hanging at his side. Mason exhaled deeply and tightened his grasp, tucking Clayton into his chest and resting his chin atop his head. It was a long moment before Mason spoke again, a smile in his voice.

“Matty, huh?” Clayton flushed, glad that Mason couldn’t see his face.

“Just came out. Sorry.”

A beat, then a quiet response. “I like it.”

* * *

After their conversation, Clayton settled down under a nearby tree to sit and wait while the others finished packing up, under strict orders to rest. He didn’t complain, needing time to settle the throbbing in his head and arm. He fell into a light doze after donning the sling, and was roused a short while later by Mason shaking his boot.

“Ready to go?” Clayton asked groggily. He used the tree to hoist himself to his feet, groaning as aches flared back to life.

“Yeah. First, though – I was looking for these, earlier. Figured you’d feel better with ‘em on. Can’t believe we forgot about them.” Mason held out something to him with a chagrined look on his face. It was Clayton’s gun belt, both pistols tucked safely away in their holsters. Clayton reached for them, relief flooding through him at the sight. Then a thought struck, and he paused, then withdrew.

“I – I don’t know if I should have those right now.” Anxiety and guilt swirled in at the memory of him pushing Mason, and he motioned towards his head. “’M not right in the head, Mason. What if, what if I go crazy again, and shoot one of y’all?” He shook his head, stepping back. “I couldn’t live with that.”

“Hey,” Mason’s voice was soothing and low. “You ain’t crazy. Just got scared, is all. You wouldn’t shoot one of us, I know you wouldn’t. You weren’t even trying to hurt me earlier, just trying to get away.”

Clayton shook his head. “You don’t know that. It wouldn’t be safe, I’d be putting all of you in danger. And, and it’s not like I can even _use_ them well right now – “

Mason cut him off, hand held up to pause him. “Stop. You’re not a danger to us, Clayton. Hell, I think you’d probably do more damage to yourself before you’d try and hurt one of us. And I think you’ll probably feel safer with your guns at your side. Lord knows I’ll feel safer too, we need you if anything goes wrong, if we come across bandits and the like. Even with your shoulder, and only one hand, you’re still a better shot than most men.” He waited, then lowered his voice. “Look, if you’re worried – and I ain’t, wanna make that damn clear – but if you’re worried, I can promise that I’ll stop you before you shoot any of us. Okay?”

Clayton weighed the idea, torn between needing the comforting weight of his guns at his side and not wanting to put the others at risk of harm from his own hand. He couldn’t stand the idea of hurting his people when he was too upset to think straight.

“Clay – I know you’re a good shot, but I’m a good fighter too. I won’t let anything happen.” He held the belt out again. “Can you trust me on that?”

Clayton bit his lip and nodded. “Alright." He took the guns and finally let out the breath he’d been holding, body sagging with relief at the familiar feel of the belt in his hands. Just the weight of his guns provided a sense of safety, and he felt some part of him settle and relax, feeling more in control than he had in days.

He smiled at Mason before looking at the belt again and realizing one dilemma.

“Uh, Reverend? You mind giving me a hand with this?” He felt blood rush to his face. “Kinda hard to put it on with only one hand.”

Mason took the belt back and stepped in close, looping it around Clayton’s hips without a word. Clayton focused his gaze intently over Mason’s shoulder as he threaded the buckles, tugging Clayton forward a step as he adjusted the belt. Clayton’s face burning at the proximity. _What a damn fool you are Clayton - can take a hug just fine, but you lose it over a man’s hands on your gun belt, _he thought, desperately trying not to react to Mason’s big hands near his hips. _This ain’t the time. Don’t fuck up a good thing **now**. _

Mason finished and rested a big palm briefly on Clayton’s hip before stepping away. “Now that looks more like it.” Clayton finally made eye contact, and found Mason was grinning at him. “What’s a gunslinger without his guns? Just ain’t right.”

Clayton smiled back and started walking towards the others, bumping his shoulder as he passed. “Thank you, Matthew. Appreciate it.”

Mason followed him over to the horses where the others were waiting patiently. Miriam smiled at him, a relieved look on her face at his steady approach. He paused as Mason approached one of the bigger horses.

“Who’m I riding with today?” Clayton asked, remembering Miriam’s insistence that he pair up.

Mason beckoned him over with a grin. “Saddle up, partner.” Clayton rolled his eyes but walked over.

“You want me to take a turn, Reverend?” Aly called out from nearby. “I know Clay’s too heavy for the ladies if he passes out again – no offense, ladies – but we can switch out if you want.”

Mason shook his head. “I’ll be just fine, Aly. Can’t imagine it’d be kind on that leg of yours.”

“Well, that’s true enough. Okay, but let me know if that changes.”

“Will do.” Clayton ignored the conversation, frustrated at feeling like an invalid. He knew he wasn’t at his best, but that didn’t make being tended to any easier. He mounted up, finding it a slightly easier task than the day prior despite the tumble earlier that morning. Mason mounted behind him, and after a brief argument about who would handle the reins (which Clayton won despite Mason’s insistence that he not push himself too hard) they were off. As they rode down the trail, Clayton felt some of the tension that had been coiling down his spine dissipate. The fluttering anxiety followed as muscles relaxed and his mood lifting. If the others noticed they made no mention of it, although Mason’s voice did sound cheerier as they conversed.

Clayton managed a few hours sitting of his own accord, but eventually the previous day’s deep fatigue set in. The restless night and difficult morning took it’s toll, and combined with his injuries made for another difficult ride. It wasn’t until his hand holding the reins had started trembling minutely and black spots were dotting his vision that Mason sighed deeply and took the reins, pulling Clayton back against his chest to rest.

Clayton tried to sit back up with little success, grumbling with frustration at his own weakness. “I’m just fine, Reverend.” He sounded far more breathless than he should for what little exertion the ride demanded, and kicked himself internally for not being stronger.

Mason just hummed deep in his chest and tightened his hold. Clayton sighed and gave in, slumping against him and closing his eyes. He scowled at the smugness he could feel radiating off Mason. _I reckon I’d feel worse about him stopping me so easily if he weren’t so damn strong,_ he mused. Mason was just so _big_, tall and broad as a barn. Clayton wasn’t a particularly large man, but he wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed. Some part of him that he didn’t often entertain enjoyed the feeling, and he tried not to dwell on it too deeply. At least not while sharing a ride with the other man. Clayton put the thoughts into the back of his mind, and fell into a doze, resting in Mason’s embrace.

The ride passed much the same for the rest of the day. Clayton spent time resting in Mason’s hold and dozing when he was too exhausted to sit straight, but would rouse every hour or so to sit up and take the reins for a time before the whole thing repeated. He managed to stay conscious far more often than the day previous, which had him feeling some relief at the sign that he was healing, albeit slowly.

At noon, he managed some jerky and hardtack at Miriam’s insistence. She looked pleased by his attempt and continued to pass him small portions throughout the day whenever he was awake. He humored her, rolling his eyes each time but giving in to her gentle encouragement. She also took to asking him every few hours if they should stop for the day or keep going – as much as he appreciated the sentiment, Clayton quickly got tired of the coddling. He wasn’t about to push it, still feeling guilty and ashamed of situation that morning, but knew he’d have to put a stop to it eventually. He was still new to having so many people around and caring for him, and having so much attention called to his wellbeing (_his weakness, _a small voice whispered insistently) was making him jumpy.

Still, he couldn’t help but be touched by the care they showed. _These’re good people, not sure how they think I deserve them. _He couldn’t imagine anyone else going out of their way to help him, to care for him, to make sure he was alright. Despite how the attention made him squirm, it was more care than he’d received in years. Possibly ever, if he was being honest with himself. And that was important, that _meant_ something. He remembered his resolve from a few nights ago and promised himself that he would let them know that they were important to him. He couldn’t something else happening without sharing his appreciation.

The only part he wasn’t sure about sharing was the true nature of his affections with Mason. He knew himself well enough to know that he was sweet on the other man and hoped desperately that Mason felt the same. It had been such a long time since he’d had a partner, someone he could totally rely on. And despite his best attempts to convince himself that he was totally fine with being alone, he couldn’t ignore the yearning for companionship. Part of him was _sure_ there was something there, _sure_ the other man felt the same way. He wasn’t totally oblivious, and the affection the other man showed him felt like far more than simple friendship.

But the other part of him - the part that was terrified of losing someone so important to him, the part of him that had been _sure_ before only to get the shit kicked out of him behind a bar for kissing the wrong man, the part of him that had been run out of towns for having been too obvious with his misguided affections, the part of him that knew that the world and the Church were terribly against men like him, the part that couldn’t forget that Mason was clergy and bound by rules and vows – that part of him couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the possibility that he’d be rejected, tossed away, or run out of town, and would lose _everything_. And these people? Were too important to risk over some infatuation. No matter what he’d been determined to do or say when he was facing death some few days ago. (_It’s not like you even deserve a relationship, no good piece of shit like yourself_, an even smaller part of him whispered. _Happiness like that ain’t for the likes of us_).

So Clayton made up his mind to keep his affections under wraps, and set it aside. He would still tell the group his plans to stay with them, and how much he valued them. He had people, good people, and would enjoy being with them while it lasted. But he would leave things be with Mason, and try to settle his foolish heart.

* * *

The sun was low on the horizon, sky streaked with a gorgeous purple and red, when Aly slowed his horse and turned around in the saddle. 

“We’ve gone far enough for one damn day, and my ass has been asleep for hours. Let’s make camp.”

Noises of agreement rose around them, and before long they were stopping a few hundred feet off the trail. Clayton was pleased to find that he didn’t recognize where they were, having apparently stopped in a different place than he’d been taken the first night. He still didn’t feel settled, exactly. Anxiety hummed quietly in his chest, but he no longer felt the jittery panic that had consumed him the previous night when he’d noticed their spot on the trail. He briefly wished he had a spot of whisky to calm his nerves, knowing it would help soothe the anxiety. _Calm my nerves, Christ. Get over it, Sharpe. _Kicking himself internally, Clayton went through the motions of dismounting and starting to unload the horses. Mason quickly shooed him away, backed by good-natured scolding from the others. So once again he found a rock to lean against, feeling useless and tired.

Before he knew it, Clayton was startling awake to Aly calling his name and kneeling in front of him, holding out a bowl of food. He blinked up at Aly’s grinning face, not even recalling falling asleep. A fire was crackling a few feet away, the others spread out beside him in a loose circle around it. Clayton sat up with a stretch and taking the bowl from Aly with a quiet thank-you. Aly paused and motioned towards the bowl and speaking in a hushed tone.

“Didn’t give you a lot. I’ll leave some in the pot, you let me know if you want more, ok?”

Clayton smiled in appreciation. “Thank-you, Mr. Fogg. Mighty thoughtful of you.”

Aly nodded and returned to dishing out food. Clayton glanced around, taking in his companions. Miriam and Arabella were chatting in between bites of food, Aly joining in occasionally. But Mason was watching Clayton, a soft look on his face. Clayton looked down into his bowl, caught off guard by the expression. He gave himself a moment to get the sudden thudding of his heart under control, then joined in the conversation.

Dinner was amicable, the easy companionship that was so common among the group apparent once more. It felt like the tension of that morning had been forgotten, which Clayton was grateful for. During a moment of quiet Clayton cleared his throat and drew their attention.

“Just wanted to say to all of you how much I appreciate you comin’ after me. I know I’ve said as much to a few of you, but I want y’all to know how much it means to me.” He glanced around at each of them in turn before returning his gaze to the fire. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve had folks who would put themselves in danger for me. And I’m grateful.” He paused, throat suddenly tight. “I ain’t one for making friends easily, but all of you – you’re important to me. An’ I need you to know that.”

“Thank-you, Mr. Clay. And you’re welcome. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that you’re important to us too. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” Miriam was smiling at him. Around the fire the others were nodding their agreement.

“’Sides, what else are friends for? I sure hope you all’d come after me if I was facin’ the noose!” Aly’s tone was teasing, and Clayton couldn’t help but laugh. Arabella reached over and smacked Aly’s leg, sparking a round of laughter from the rest, and the somber mood was broken. Watching the two of them squabble and looking around at Miriam and Mason, Clayton felt content and warm. _How’d I get so damn lucky?_

Conversation and laughter continued as the fire dwindled, and soon dishes were cleaned and the watch order was set. Clayton settled into his bedroll near the fire, contentment curling like a cat in his chest. Forgetting for a moment about the nightmares that were surely waiting for him, he quickly found himself drifting off to sleep, surrounded by the people he cared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many feels in this chapter, y’all. *Shakes head* SO many feels. 
> 
> Everyone is trying their best, they really are. 
> 
> Re: re-breaking the arm: I have no idea how easy it is to push a bone that’s been set out of place, but I imagine quite easy if it hasn’t been put in a cast. Also, fun fact! Plaster of Paris started being used in the 1850s for casting broken limbs. The things you learn when writing fanfic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are so very appreciated!! Next chapter should be up in a few weeks.


	6. Returning Home (The Third Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang (finally) makes it back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late, thanks for your patience! Chapters may be a bit further apart in the future because of some real life stuff that’s come up. But – this story will get finished! Eventually!
> 
> I am quite pleased with this chapter, I hope you enjoy it. Thanks so much to everyone who left a comment or kudos, y’all are the very best!!
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: more anxiety, more medical stuff. I can’t think of any other warnings, please let me know if you see any that should be added.

The evening passed much like the last one. Clayton woke often from a combination of nightmares and pain lancing through various parts of his body, and forewent trying to return to sleep when the sky started to lighten from black to a heavy grey. Once again he joined Aly at the fire, content to sit in silence as they finished the last watch. Frustration bloomed when Clayton realized that the same jittery, uneasy feeling from the day before crept into his gut, and that he was jumping at noises and eyeing their surroundings far closer than was warranted. Gradually though, so slowly he hardly realized it had happened, his shoulders eased, and the feeling crept away. Aly’s quiet presence was soothing, and it was easy to try and follow the pattern of his breathing with the other man none the wiser. The knot in his stomach had just unwound when Aly broke the silence.

“How’d they catch you, anyway? Don’t think any of us got around to askin’ you about the particulars.”

Clayton scratched at his chin, unsure of the best way to answer. “Not much to tell, really. Caught me unawares after I dropped Mason off at the Church the other night. Woke up the next day slung over a saddle with a shot in one shoulder and a head wound.”

Aly hummed in response. “Figured it was somethin’ like that. It takes a lot to get the drop on you, they must’ve been watching for a while.”

“Most likely.”

“I think it’d be best if we keep an eye out for others like them, can’t have any more foolhardy wanna-be bounty hunters thinkin’ they can claim that money. At least for the next little while.”

Clayton shuddered at the thought. “Well, if it gets too bad I can always skip town for a while, till the heat dies down.” The look he got was incredulous. “Don’t look at me like that Fogg, I just… don’t want anything to happen to y’all on account of me.”

“So all that talk about friends last night was for nothing? You’re just gonna split if things get too hot?”

“No, that’s not it – I, I just can’t have any of you hurt because of me. I can’t change that bounty any more than I can change the sunrise, but if leaving will keep y’all safe?” Clayton’s throat was suddenly tight. “I’d leave.”

“With all due respect, that’s not your call. And I never did take you for one to be interested in stupidity and chivalry.” Clayton looked at him in confusion, and Aly pointed a finger at him in return. “You ain’t needin’ to keep any of us safe at your own expense. If we choose to go out on a limb and help you, if we work together to protect each other – you included – than that’s our own damn choice. I can’t speak for the others, but I’d rather have to come out on some wild goose chase than have you just up and leave.”

Clayton nodded in thanks, shooting Aly a grateful look. Aly nodded in response and settled back to gazing at the sunrise. 

“‘Sides, we need you to help keep the rest of us safe. Don’t think you’re the only one with somethin’ hanging over your head.”

Clayton’s chest hollowed at the thought of Mason’s bounty poster, and the idea of him being taken or killed. “As I am aware. Thank you for the reminder.” He let the moment passed then thought to ask something that’d been bugging him too. “What about you all, how’d you find me? Didn’t think there was any hope that you’d know what had happened, but you caught up real quick.”

Aly smiled. “Katy over at the Bella Union saw them all headin’ out of town with someone slung over their saddle, heard ‘em mention Cheyenne. She didn’t know it was you until we came askin’ the next day.” He hesitated. “I am ashamed to say that it took us till nearly evening to notice you was missin’ and find anything out. We’re damn lucky she saw them, otherwise we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of catching up. It was a near thing as it was.”

A noise drew his attention away from Aly, and over to see Mason climbing out of his bedroll. He vanished into the brush, re-emerging several minutes later and dragging one of his blankets towards them. Clayton nodded his good morning. Mason looked only half-awake, and proceeded to slump to the ground with a yawn, wrapping his blanket around him. He lasted upright for only a minute before sprawling on the ground, buried in his blanket, long legs stretched out beside the fire. Clayton hid his smile behind his hand.

“What’d you come over here for if you’re only going to fall back asleep?”

Mason flapped a hand at him. “Gon’ have to be up soon anyway. The Lord saw fit to end my slumber, so I shall abide by his will.” His normally smooth drawl was husky and slurred with sleep, and something clenched in Clayton’s chest. He pushed it down and exchanged a grin with Aly.

“Yes, and you’re doing a fine job of being awake right now. I’m sure the Lord is very pleased with you.”

“I am but a humble servant to his will.” Aly burst into laughter, and Matthew sent a rude gesture his way, then nestled deeper into the blankets. They basked in the companionable silence, the previous conversation forgotten, with only the crackling of the fire and the call of early morning birds breaking the quiet.

Soft snores were coming from Matthew’s direction when the deep roll of thunder sounded in the distance. Clayton glanced up to the sky, then at Aly. He could just make out tall, dark clouds looming on the horizon; they were a ways off, but a brisk wind was blowing in their direction.

Aly shook his head in dismay. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a rainstorm coming.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ll go wake the ladies, we should get movin’ soon as we can if there’s gonna be rain, maybe we can beat it. You wanna wake our resident preacher?”

Clayton nodded and followed suit, limping over to crouch at Mason’s side and shake his shoulder. Mason startled awake, blinking up at him from within his nest of blankets. _Too damn cute. _Clayton bit his lip to hide his smile. “Hey, wake up Mason. Rain’s coming, we gotta get moving.” Mason caught his hand as he started to pull away.

“Thought I told you to call me Matthew a while back.” That deep rumble was back in his voice and his eyes were heavy-lidded and searching in the early morning light. Heat pooled in Clayton’s gut as his gaze swept up and down his form, hand warm in his. Clayton cleared his throat and looked away, cursing the warmth that rose to his face. 

“You did. Matthew. C’mon, we gotta pack up.” He tugged lightly at the hand holding his own. Mason held on for a second longer, squeezing tightly before letting him go. He stretched within his cocoon then started to untangle himself.

“Alright, I’m up, I’m up.”

Flustered, Clayton stood up and made for the saddlebags. “I’ll get the vittles.”

* * *

Breakfast was a short, quiet affair. They forewent porridge in favour of hard biscuits and jerky, wanting to get as many miles behind them as they could before the rain arrived. Clayton was itching to get going, impatient to return… home, he supposed. More of a home than anywhere he’d been for some time, although he was still living out of his saddlebags in a hotel room. He had been hesitant to fully unpack, never knowing if he’d need to up and run if his past ever caught up with him. _And look what good that did you, _his mind whispered traitorously_. _

But he was ready to be back indoors, out of the blinding sun and oppressive heat (or the rain, if the sky spoke truthfully). Ready to be off horseback, sitting at a proper table, with a tumbler of whisky. Clayton was no stranger to hard living, to long rides and dust-coated clothing, but that didn’t mean he was fond of it. He was keenly aware of the scent of days-old sweat, blood, and dirt that clung to him, and the salt crusting his clothing; the only condolence was that all of them were in the same situation. Arabella and Miriam had been complaining about the lack of proper bathing facilities for the past two days, and bemoaning the trousers they had chosen to wear. Aly had been griping for a meal that wasn’t stew and hardtack, and for the lovely ladies of the Gem Saloon. Mason had been surprisingly quiet, not complaining for any of the creature comforts the others missed**.** He had only softly mentioned that he was glad they would be close to Deadwood and proper medical care soon, eyes glancing at Clayton’s arm. At the time Clayton had simply nodded and tried to change the subject, unsure how to respond.

As he ate, Clayton pondered the use of Mason’s given name. He knew that he’d been avoiding it to provide some distance mentally and maintain some form of separation (which was becoming harder and harder these days). Too much familiarity would only make it easier for his affections to grow, and he didn’t need the heartache involved in that. His slip into the nickname the earlier day had been a mistake, and one that he couldn’t take back – it was too easy to want to be sweet with Mason. But the other man had done so much for him, and it was hard not to respect his wishes. He knew he’d still try and use his last name or honorific occasionally (_just so you don’t slip, and he doesn’t get any bad ideas about you, _he reasoned). But Mason (_no, **Matthew**)_ deserved to feel that Clayton respected him and his name. _I at least owe him that, after all he’s done for me. Done harder things than that anyhow._

* * *

The threat of a storm and the call of home was a strong motivator to not dally that morning, and they were quick about packing up and heading out after eating. At Miriam and Matthew’s insistence, Clayton rode double with Matthew once more, unwilling to waste his breath arguing with the determined pair. To his chagrin he found himself glad for the support throughout the day, spending the occasional period of time leaning against Matthew to give his aching body a reprieve. The other man never seemed to mind, and often encouraged Clayton to take a break and rest when the fatigue started to weigh. Nonetheless, Clayton was pleased to find that he stayed conscious throughout the day, despite the occasional period resting in Matthew’s hold.

The horses caught their enthusiasm for returning to Deadwood and set a steady clip along the trail. They made good time, and the weather held until mid-afternoon. The sky grew rapidly darker as the clouds that had been threatening on the horizon finally rolled overhead, and small splatters of rain fell down around them. Not noticing the change in weather until he felt raindrops splatter on his hand, Clayton cursed and dropped the reins, pulling his hat lower over his face. He fumbled with one good hand to draw his duster properly closed over his arm, which was bound tightly in the sling against his chest.

“Here, let me.” Matthew reached around Clayton and took over, buttoning his duster with swift fingers. He rested one hand against Clayton’s side when he was done, palm warm even through the layers of fabric. Clayton hoped he didn’t notice the pink that swept across his face and neck as he collected the reins again, and barely managed to stutter out a quiet word of thanks.

With a crack of thunder, the heavens broke open. Rain poured down in sheets, forming rivers in the dirt between the hooves of their horses. Clayton breathed a sigh of relief when none of their horses spooked at the sudden noise from above. Curses came from his nearby companions at the downpour.**  
**

“Should we take shelter and try and wait it out?” Aly shouted through the heavy downfall.

“Best keep going.” Miriam called back. “I’d rather ride through this and have a warm bed tonight than be out here another day!”

The others shouted their agreement, and the decision was made.

“How far out are we?” Clayton asked Matthew quietly, trying to keep the fluster out of his voice. His hand was still on Clayton’s hip, holding on and distracting him from the trail. “We’ll go faster if you let me ride on my lonesome.”

“We’ll be fine, Clay.”

The dismissal sparked the previous day’s frustration at being coddled, and he turned around in the saddle to side-eye Matthew, pulling them to a stop. “I been keeping myself awake the whole damn day, it’s foolish to keep y’all slowed down on my account!”

Matthew gazed back evenly, rain dripping off his hat. “I know you think so, but I’d rather ensure your well-being than take any risks. And if that means we all spend a little more time out here in the rain, then so be it.”

Clayton huffed and turned back around, clucking their horse back into motion. “You’re a damn fool, Matthew Mason.” Matthew leaned forward, chest a solid weight against his back, and spoke into Clayton’s ear.

“Better a damn fool than a neglectful one who puts you in danger.” Clayton shivered at the deep rumble of his voice. And then his weight was gone, a lingering echo of warmth left behind.

* * *

The remainder of the ride was miserable. Their weather-proofed outerwear did little against the torrential rain, and they were quickly soaked through. The day had cooled as well, and the cold quickly brought about a fierce ache in Clayton’s various wounds. He found himself shivering despite the warmth radiating off Matthew behind him and the horse underneath him. True to form, Matthew pried the reins from his clenched hand and bundled him back against his chest as soon as he noticed, wrapping warm arms around Clayton in a firm embrace. Clayton didn’t argue, too exhausted and cold to put up much protest. He chastised himself for the swell of affection at the other man’s attentions. _Don’t get too used to this. Ain’t like it’s gonna continue after you’re back in Deadwood – and if it does you need to put a stop to it real soon. _

It was hours later and the light had faded when they finally descended out of the pines and saw the shape of buildings emerge through the rain before them. Clayton hardly noticed, head thick and pounding, nearly numb with cold. His pain and fatigue had been steadily increasing the longer they rode, and it had been easy to let his mind slip into the fog that came so easily these days. The others were speaking around him, but he paid them no mind – he only needed to be dropped off at the Bullock and he’d be fine.

The next thing Clayton noticed was Matthew slowing their horse and dismounting near a hitching post. Then he was being urged off the horse, dismounting clumsily and following where Matthew led him. It was only once he was being ushered down a hallway and into a small, brightly lit room that Clayton realized that he was in the new Doc’s office. The man himself was waiting nearby, looking apprehensive as Miriam and Arabella explained the situation.

Clayton groaned at the realization of his whereabouts and wheeled about. “Nope, don’t need a doctor.” He started for the door, only for Matthew to stop him with a firm grip on his shoulders, pushing him gently backwards and into a nearby chair. Clayton wasn’t sure if he should be frustrated at his own lack of strength, or impressed at the ease with which Matthew manhandled him. He tipped his head back, glaring up at the other man from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. 

“Reverend, I don’t need this. Arabella did a fine job bandaging me up.” Matthew leveled an unimpressed look at him, glancing pointedly at his arm and his shoulder. Clayton relented. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? All I need tonight is to be someplace fuckin’ dry and warm.”

“You’re white as a sheet.” Matthew removed his gloves, then hand reached out and pressed a hand against his cheek. Clayton shuddered and leaned into the touch, eyes drifting closed. Matthew’s hand was cool against his skin, and Clayton suddenly realized how warm he felt despite the hours spent in the cold rain. “And you’re burning up.”

“’M jus’ fine…”

“Try to say that without slurring your words, Clay.” His voice dropped to a mutter as his thumb gently stroked Clayton’s cheek. “Sakes alive but you’re the stubbornest man I’ve met.” Clayton quirked his lips and drew back, breaking contact. He opened his eyes to find Matthew gazing down at him fondly.

Miriam cleared her throat as she made her way over to them. “Doc’ll be over in a minute, he’s just gathering supplies from the back.” She gave Clayton a knowing smile, which he avoided with a frown. “Oh don’t look so put out, Clayton, this won’t take long. I’m going to go and give Aloysius a hand returning the horses to the livery, but we’ll be back shortly. Then we can discuss the matter of where you’ll be staying while you recover.”

Clayton’s heart jittered, and he roused himself out of the fog. “At the Bullock, in my own goddamn hotel room,” he ground out, hand gripping the arm of the chair tightly.

Miriam’s glare did little to quell his frustration and sudden anxiety. “Clayton. You can hardly undress by yourself with that arm, let alone take care of yourself. Just for a little while, honey, till you don’t look like you’re going to pass out at any minute.” Her face turned pensive. “Although, I suppose Aly could help you, he’s still stayin’ there too…”

“Look, Miss Miriam. I appreciate your concern, I surely do. But I can take care of my fucking self, been doin’ it for years and – “

Matthew placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, silencing him. “He can stay with me. I’ve got plenty of room at the parsonage, and I’m no stranger to wounds and illness.” Clayton gaped at him. _This is a horrible idea. _

Miriam beamed. “Excellent, I’m sure you’ll take wonderful care of our Mister Sharpe.” She looked at Clayton and smiled at his frown. “I’ll also feel much better knowing that you’re safe with one of us – I will admit to having some worry that a bounty poster is still out there. So thank you, Reverend, for easing my mind. I should really go help Aly, though – we’ll be back soon.” She ducked and gave Clayton a kiss on the cheek, then left the room. 

Clayton scowled after her, then at Matthew. “I don’t need your charity, Mason.”

Matthew settled into a chair beside his. “You continue to show a particular reluctance to calling me by my given name. Why is that?”

Clayton pointed at him. “Don’t change the fucking subject.”

Whatever Matthew was going to respond was cut off by the return of Doc Ashby and Arabella. The new Doctor was a short but solid man with a calm aura about him, who had quickly adjusted to Deadwood’s lawless nature. He seemed unaffected by their rough state, and piled an armful of supplies on the table beside Clayton.

“Coat and shirt off, please. Hat too. I need to see what we’re working with.” He looked at Arabella. “I’ll ask you to wait in my parlour, Mrs. Whitlock. This is not a sight for delicate sensibilities.”

She gave a polite smile. “Well, I do have some experience with medical care, I thought to offer my assistance should you need it. My husband understands, and is very supportive of my endeavors.” She gestured at Clayton. “I tended to his wounds out on the trail and I’d like to know what to watch out for in the future.”

He studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Alright, if you insist. Not sure how comfortable I’d be with my wife looking at another man undressed, but it’s not my place to tell you what to do. Best show me your work, then.” Arabella gave him a tight smile, then turned her attention on Clayton.

Clayton glowered at both of them before starting on his buttons with trembling fingers. Matthew stepped in to assist, big hands nimble on Clayton’s shirt. Clayton tamped down the flutter in his stomach at the feeling of Matthew’s fingers brushing his skin, keenly aware of the attentive audience nearby. In a moment he was quickly divested of his duster, sling, and most of his shirt. Doc Ashby paused them before they could try and drag it over his splinted arm.

“Are you particularly attached to that shirt, Mister Sharpe?” Clayton shook his head in response. “I’m of the opinion that it would be easier for all of us if I simply cut it off, rather than try and drag it over that arm of yours. Is that amenable to you?”

“Have at.” The Doc grabbed some scissors and cut Clayton’s shirt sleeve efficiently away at the shoulder, followed by the bandages around his shoulder, head and wrists. Arabella started detailing the care she’d already done on his various wounds, as the Doctor prodded at him with cold hands. Clayton stopped paying attention quickly, gazing at the ceiling and hoping they would be done soon. Fatigue weighed in his bones, and a chill was setting in now that his clothing was off. On top of which, he’d never been fond of the vulnerability involved in a medical examination, far more used to performing his own field surgery or simply ignoring his hurts than having some highfalutin _doctor_ pour over him. The comfortable numbness that had fallen over him on the ride had long since faded, and anxiety simmered just under his skin. He tried to tune out the chatter and steady his heart, but it was difficult to do so with so many eyes on him. Darting a glance around the room, he caught Matthew’s gaze. The other man’s brown eyes were measured and calm, and he held Clayton’s gaze steadily, quirking a small smile. Clayton took a deep breath and felt his heart start to slow, reassured by Matthew’s steady presence.

He returned his attention to his treatment when the doctor started smearing something cold and sharp-smelling over his shoulder, and caught the tail end of an explanation to Arabella that iodine would help to keep infection at bay. From the look on her face it wasn’t new information, and she was simply humoring the man’s tutelage. Why she hadn’t simply taken over the doctor’s job after Doc Cochran died, Clayton would never know. She was more than suited for the role.

Doc Ashby re-wrapped his shoulder with a new bandage, then did the same iodine treatment over the cut on his temple. Clayton’s head pounded with the smell and sensation. “The bandages should be applied fresh each day. Bring him here if you so desire, but any of you should be able to do the same. I can supply them and a bottle of iodine for a fee.” He finished with Clayton’s head and moved on to his wrists. “Now it’s the wrists that I am more concerned about – the wounds on his shoulder and head appear to be healing without issue, but these lacerations show signs of infections. They should be treated with iodine daily, ideally several times a day to keep the infection at bay. Bring him back if his fever worsens.”

The doctor examined his splinted arm critically, before turning to Arabella. “Do you have much experience as a bone-setter?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Enough to know I was doing it right.” He hummed and unwrapped the arm, gently palpating Clayton’s arm after it was bare**. **Clayton grit his teeth and gripped the arm of the chair with his other hand as pain roared back to life. Doc Ashby seemed satisfied with what he found, and began to wrap it with fresh bandages.

“Well, normally I would like to plaster your arm as it’s the most effective treatment for keeping the bone in place. However, due to the wound on your wrist that method of treatment won't be possible. I have splints that would be more suited to wear for the duration of your healing, if you would like and are able to afford the fee. Now unfortunately they are still somewhere in the crates I brought with me, and it will take me some time to find them. I can have them ready by the morning if you're able to return then?”

“We’ll bring him by.” Matthew spoke up, handing over a small pouch of gold to the doctor. “And we’d appreciate your discretion about all of this.” Doc Ashby glanced inside it and smiled at what he saw.

“Of course. You’re welcome anytime.” He redirected his attention to Clayton. “Will you be needing any painkillers? Morphine is quite effective, and will ease your healing.”

Clayton shook his head. “Nah, I ain’t one for it. Whiskey’ll do me just fine if I need it.”

Doc Ashby nodded and beckoned at Clayton. “Here, sit on the table and I’ll see to your ribs as well, ensure nothing is broken. Your bruising indicates some… rough treatment, and it’s best to be sure. I want to check your throat as well.”

“Ribs ain’t broken.” Clayton ground out, ready to be done with all the touching. “And my neck’s just damn fine.” Matthew frowned at him, but it was Arabella who stepped forward.

“Clayton, please. Just to be sure.” She looked worried, and Clayton sighed in exasperation.

“Fine. The ribs, **not** my neck though.” He raised his voice when the doctor and Arabella began to protest, anxiety spiking sharply. “It’s fucking fine, and if you insist then we’re done here.” When they both reluctantly agreed he stood and moved to the table, shrugging off the hands which reached to steady him when he wavered. “Damn mother hens, all your fussing is bound to make a man sick.”

The bemused look on his companion’s faces belied a distinct lack of sympathy at his grousing. Doc Ashby worked quickly, cold hands palpating Clayton’s ribs and abdomen with familiar efficiency. Clayton tried not to shiver at the cool, clinical touch.

Doc Ashby stood back once he was finished. “Mrs. Whitlock, I’ll ask you to leave the room for a moment.” He stopped her noise of protest with a hand. “I’ll hear no arguments, there are some things I am not willing to discuss with a woman present. Even if she is wearing trousers.” She complied with a tight smile, heading into the hallway. Once the door was closed the doctor returned his attention to Clayton.

“Now. Is there anywhere below the waist that needs seeing to?”

“No.” Clayton ground it out, ignoring the throbbing in his hip and ankle.

“Your ankle, Clayton.” Matthew interjected. Clayton shot him a dirty look.

“Traitor.”

“The Lord saw fit to make me an honest man.” Matthew’s eyes danced with mirth at his glower.

“Anywhere other than the ankle?”

“No. And the ankle’s fine, just rolled a bit.”

“But please check it anyway, good Doctor Ashby, is what he means to say.”

Doc Ashby glanced at Clayton’s hunched and shivering form, then at Matthew’s towering presence. Matthew crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, raising an eyebrow at Clayton. Clayton huffed in response, shoulders slumping down towards the table. He was too exhausted to fight over it right now.

Doc Ashby nodded at Matthew, having clearly decided he was the more intimidating presence at the present time. “Right then, boot off if you please.” Clayton complied, still glaring at Matthew, who looked particularly pleased by his acquiescence. Doc Ashby quickly checked the ankle over and wrapped it tightly in gauze before declaring Clayton fit to leave. Clayton slide off the table and set about pulling on his boot, hands trembling with exhaustion. He was ready to leave and collapse into a bed somewhere. 

“Thank you, doctor. We’ll be back mid-morning.” Doc Ashby handed a bundle of medical supplies to Matthew before nodding at them both and stepping out. Arabella, clearly having been waiting just outside the door, rushed back in.

“Don’t think I needed to leave if he was just wrapping your _ankle._” She muttered, a disgruntled look on her face.

Clayton smiled despite himself. “Think he was worried about any unmentionables, Bella.”

“Still. He could have seen to your ankle and _then_ asked.”

Matthew held Clayton’s shirt out to him with both hands. “C’mere, let me help you get this on. Coat, too. Can’t have you walkin’ down the thoroughfare half-naked, no matter what time of day it is.” He helped Clayton into the sleeveless shirt then turned him around, reaching down to button it up. Clayton’s heart beat faster at the feeling of his fingers against the bare skin of his chest, and he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. Fingertips brushed fleetingly against the hollow of his throat as Matthew did up the last button, resting his hands lightly on Clayton’s shoulders.

“There. Somewhat decent, at least.”

Clayton crooked a grin at him, noting with surprise the blush high on Matthew’s cheeks. _Cute. _“Well, thank you for preserving my dignity, Reverend. It’s mighty appreciated.”

Footsteps ringing down the hall alerted them to the arrival of Miriam and Aly. They crowded into the small room, dripping with water. Clayton fastened his arm into a sling, then awkwardly shrugged on his duster.

“Best do up his coat too, Matthew, it’s still raining something fierce.” Matthew nodded and followed suite.

“Startin’ to feel like a damn kid, always havin’ someone button me up nowadays.” Clayton griped quietly.

“Don’t worry.” The smile was evident in Matthew’s voice. “I’m well aware of the fact you’re not a child.”

“Honestly, a child would be much easier to care for. You’re bound and determined to do everything by your lonesome. Not too often I meet a man so dead set against being helped.” Miriam said wryly.

Clayton grimaced, chagrined. “Apologies, Miss Miriam. Just… just not used to all the mother hennin’, that’s all. I surely do appreciate all the help, I just… ain’t familiar with it.”

Her gaze was soft when he made eye contact. “I know, sugar. Just ribbin’ on you.”

Aly, as usual, seemed to know exactly when Clayton was at his limit. “Well now, I’d best be walkin’ the ladies to their homes. Rev’rend, you’ll be able to see Mister Sharpe back to the Church?”

“I’m sure we’ll manage just fine, assuming Clayton doesn’t try and make a break for it.” Clayton scowled at Matthew, who simply smiled pleasantly before donning his own coat and hat.

“Alright, then. Stay safe, and we’ll see you in the morning. We meetin’ for breakfast at the Gem?”

“Bright and early, Mister Fogg!”

* * *

They headed for the door, and stepped out onto the empty street. The rain had let up somewhat, and Clayton was glad for the brief reprieve. He didn’t want to have to change bandages yet again, and hoped they would be reasonably dry by the time they made it to the parsonage. Matthew hovered beside him, measuring his gait to Clayton’s shorter stride and watching closely for any stumbles. Clayton resolutely ignored the attention, keeping his own focus on the streets around them.

Walking was more tiring than it should have been, and Clayton felt jumpy and hyper aware the entire short trip over to the parsonage. He had never been happier to see the Church steeple loom over the street ahead of them, and quickened his gait. Matthew led him around back and up a set of stairs to the small house he had built beside the Church and declared his parsonage. Unlocking the door, he ushered Clayton inside. They entered a small sitting room, containing a desk and several chairs; there was a doorway on one other side of the room that Clayton knew led to a small kitchen and dining area, and another that he imagined led to the bedroom. He clumsily unbuttoned his duster and stripped it off before Matthew could assist, hanging it and his hat on one of the hooks by the door. His gunbelt followed soon after, then his boots were kicked off and set beside the door. Matthew did the same before ambling into the room and lighting a lamp.

“Just sit tight a moment, I’m going to light the stove, get some warmth in here.” Clayton waited by the doorway while Matthew clanged around the kitchen, apprehension stewing in his gut. Being alone with the object of his affections was a terrible idea, especially with all the _touching_ Matthew had taken to recently. He knew the only reason for it was his sudden infirmary_, _and couldn’t help but feel upset at the knowledge. He didn’t want to be here, feeling like a charity case to the good Reverend, stewing in his own feelings. He was contemplating leaving and returning to his hotel room when Matthew peered through the door. Resignation settled in. _He’d only come after you anyway. And you’d probably want him to, you goddamn soft sappy sucker. _With that knowledge in his mind, Clayton double checked the lock on the door, then dragged the desk chair over to prop it underneath the handle. Some part of his mind eased at the sense of safety that came with the familiar act.

Matthew watched him silently, hovering in the doorway before returning to his previous place by the desk once Clayton was done. He looked uncomfortable, and Clayton understood the feeling; he couldn’t recall the last time just the two of them had been alone in a room together. He fidgeted, unsure of what to do with himself and the sudden tension that filled the room. The drip of water puddling on the floor from their sodden clothing and the sound of his own breathing rang out through the silence. Finally Matthew spoke.

“I must admit to having some… selfish reasons for having you stay with me.” He held up his hands in a soothing gesture at the flash of alarm that snuck across Clayton’s face. “Nothing nefarious, don’t look so worried.” He hesitated and leaned against the desk, contemplation on his face. “I had something I wanted to speak to you about, but it’s of a rather private nature. I didn’t want to bring it up around our companions, and the trail is not a good place to have a quiet moment alone. But I need to address it, as it has been weighing on me.”

Clayton waited as patiently as he could in the middle of the room, anxiety mounting at the long silence that followed. “Ain’t need to be worried. I promise I won’t run, no matter what you got to say.”

“Clayton… I, I don’t know if you remember, but I used a spell to speak to you the other night, before we found you.” Clayton froze. _I thought that was a dream. _“You scared the absolute shit out of me, by the way, you sounded awful. And you…” Matthew’s gaze was steady even as he hesitated. “You called me sweetheart.”

Clayton felt the blood drain from his face and looked away, no longer able to maintain eye contact. _Shit._ “My apologies. I thought that conversation took place in a dream.”

“I can understand why. Must be strange, suddenly hearing someone speak in your mind.” Clayton chanced a glance, and his grin was crooked and unsure in the lamplight.

“Please ignore my response that evening, Reverend.” He could feel nervous energy grow in his stomach, and his hands started shaking. “Meant no offense, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Clay, I’m not uncomfortable.” Matthew’s voice was soft.

“You sure about that?” He laughed self-deprecatingly, wishing he’d kept his hat on to hide under. “I’m sure you’ve figured out by now my affections are… different than most men.” He heaved in a breath and searched for the courage that came easier when he was holding a gun. “That I’m sweet on you. But I won’t trouble you, I know what the Bible says about men like me. I’ll keep my affections to myself.” He knew he was babbling but couldn’t stop his stuttering flood of words, panic overriding his ability to contain his thoughts. “I can, I can leave, I’m sure they kept my room at the hotel –“

The soft press of lips against his mouth cut him off, then Matthew’s hand was smoothing through his hair to cup the back of his head. Clayton melted into the kiss on instinct, hand coming up to clutch at Matthew’s shirt. It lasted only a moment, then Matthew was pulling back to examine his face with a look of uncertainty. Clayton’s brain caught up with his body and he stumbled backwards, hand straying up to press against his lips in wonder.

“What the hell,” he whispered.

“Sorry, it was the only thing I could think of to stop your panicking. I’d really rather you didn’t leave.” Clayton could only stare at him, dumbfounded. Matthew was gazing at him with an imploring look on his face. “I’m not sure how you haven’t noticed, but I’m sweet on you too. I haven’t exactly been subtle about the fact that you’ve caught my fancy.”

Clayton could hardly breathe, and he was sure his eyes were wide as saucers. His head was spinning with confusion. “I thought… preacher like yourself, there was no way I was readin’ things correctly…”

Matthew smiled, and the affection openly displayed on his face, while nothing new, suddenly rang brightly with new context. “Oh, you were. Make no mistake about that. I’ve been hoping to get you into my bed for a while now.”

_This can’t be real. _“Don’t you have some vow of chastity or something’ to uphold?”

“Clayton,” Matthew said, laughter in his voice, “I’m a preacher, not a priest. I didn’t make a vow of celibacy, and I’m not about to anytime soon. And to your earlier concern - I don’t really care about what the Bible has to say about men like us. I’m sure it has plenty to say about beating a man to death, but that hasn’t stopped me yet.” Clayton snorted in response. Matthew smiled before his face turned serious again. “But I do want you, Clayton. Will you have me?”

The intensity on his face left Clayton breathless. “Yes. Of course. Been wantin’ you for ages.”

Matthew’s relief and joy was palpable. “Good. Good.” Matthew stepped in close again, reaching up and stroking his cheek. “Now, can I kiss you again?”

Clayton wrapped a hand around his neck and tugged Matthew down to his level in response, sealing their lips together. Matthew groaned and threaded a hand through Clayton’s hair, tilting his head and tracing his bottom lip with his tongue. Clayton parted with a moan, and Matthew licked into his mouth. His other hand landed on Clayton’s hip, thumb stroking his skin through the thin fabric, sending shivers up Clayton’s spine. Matthew tugged him towards the second doorway, guiding him into the bedroom, mouths still trading hot kisses.

Clayton only parted from Matthew when his head started to spin from lack of air. Matthew dipped his head to kiss along Clayton’s jaw, stubble rasping against Clayton’s cheek. The spinning didn’t stop, and Clayton realized that he couldn’t feel his hands properly, and his knees were wobbly. _Not just the kiss, then_.

“Matty.” He patted at Matthew’s shoulder clumsily. “Matty, I need t’ sit down.”

“Hmmm?” Matthew drew back to look at his face, alarm sparking at whatever he saw. “Shit, sit down, here, on the bed –“ He guided Clayton backwards and down, setting him on the edge of the bed and guiding his head between his knees. Sitting beside him, Matthew smoothed a palm up and down his back.

When the ringing in his ears and white crossing his vision had lessened, Clayton flopped back onto the bed with a groan.

“Well, that ain’t how I wanted that to end. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I should’ve thought better. You’re not well.”

Clayton waved a hand at him. “Was totally worth it. C’mere.” Matthew leaned on the bed beside him, and Clayton drew him down and into a soft kiss.

Matthew’s voice was grave when they parted. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Miriam that I almost made you pass out.”

Clayton smirked at him. “Not sure I want that story to get out, anyhow. Makes me seem like a damn fair maiden or something, fainting at a man’s kiss.”

“It does, doesn’t it.” Matthew grinned and lay down beside him. “Imagine that, my kisses have the power to bring the wild gunslinger to his knees.”

Clayton swallowed heavily, mouth watering at the thought. _It has been far, far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of sucking a man off_. “Another day, Matthew, and I’ll happily get on my knees for you.”

Matthew appeared over him again, gaze heated. “I’ll hold you to that.” He bent down for another lingering kiss, then withdrew. “But not tonight. You need sleep. C’mon, let’s get you out of that wet clothing and into bed.” Clayton nodded and sluggishly moved to sit up. The room spun, and took a moment to re-align itself**. **

Matthew was looking at him with worry. “You alright there? You went real pale for a second.”

Clayton nodded and kissed him lightly in response, then slipped his sling off and tugged at the buttons on his shirt. Matthew quickly took over, unbuttoning his shirt and then sliding it off his shoulders with gentle hands. He paused at Clayton’s pants, setting both hands to rest against his hips. Clayton shuddered at the heat of his palms, and wished he had more energy.

“How would you feel about bathing before we bed down?”

“That’d probably be a good idea. I’m fucking filthy.” Clayton muttered, keenly aware of the days of dirt and sweat clinging to him. “And I would hate to get your bedding dirty.”

A hand cupped his cheek. “You’re also exhausted. How about a quick wipe down in the kitchen before we settle? Just enough to get you clean.”

Clayton nodded and shakily followed Matthew into the small adjoined kitchen, sitting at one of the few chairs around the table. Matthew bustled around the kitchen, lighting a burner on the stove and setting a pot of water to heat. Smiling softly, he came close and leaned a hip against the table, reaching out to stroke a hand through Clayton’s hair. Clayton leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his waist, resting his forehead against Matthew’s soft belly. The hand paused. He settled closer with a sigh, eyes drifting closed as the fingers resumed their gentle combing.

Clayton was nearly asleep when Matthew loosened his arm from around his waist and stepped away, returning with a basin of hot water, soap, and a cloth. Clayton stood and unbuttoned his trousers, glancing at Matthew’s face as he started to tug them off. The look there was one he would cherish forever; he’d never have someone turn such awe his direction before. Once he was bare, Matthew stepped close and drew him into a heated kiss, hand tight on his hip.

“The things I would do to you…”

“Soon. Tomorrow.” Matthew nodded, pressing their foreheads together before guiding Clayton back onto the chair and reaching for the cloth. He dipped it in water and soap then wiped gently at Clayton’s face, smoothing away dirt and blood. The water was hot as it sluiced down his skin, and a shiver of pleasure that ran through him at the sensation. Clayton took the cloth before Matthew could reach his neck, quickly scrubbing at the tender skin. Gentle fingers pried it from his hand once he was done, then soaked it again and continued down over Clayton’s shoulders and arms, and onto his torso. He was silent as he worked, tenderly drawing the cloth over Clayton’s bruised and battered skin, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He traced a mark on Clayton’s ribs with one calloused hand, regret and anger mixing on his face.

“I’m sorry we weren’t there sooner.”

Clayton touched his cheek, redirecting his gaze up to meet Claytons. “No need for that. You got there soon enough.”

Matthew took the hand from his cheek and pressed a kiss to Clayton’s palm. “Still. I don’t like to see you hurt.”

The simple sweetness of the gesture made Clayton’s heart ache. “I know. The same goes for you, Matty.” 

Matthew dropped his hand and returned to his task. Clayton took the cloth from him once he reached his waist, knowing that if he let the other man wash his nether regions they would get no rest that evening. And as much as he would love for that to happen, his tired and aching body firmly rejected the idea. Matthew left him to his own devices after a gentle kiss, returning to heat more water on the stove then stepping into the other room. He returned with a towel, as well as clothing; an undershirt, a pair of drawers, and a nightgown.

“I figured you’d want something clean to wear. You’re welcome to any of these, whichever will fit best.” Clayton set the cloth back in the washbasin and dried off hastily. Fatigue was pulling at his mind, and he knew he would crash soon. He took the nightgown and found the left sleeve, unbuttoning the cuff so it would fit over his splint. Tugging it on, Clayton found himself swamped in material, collar slipping off one shoulder and sleeves billowing with extra fabric. When he stood it fell far past his knees, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight he knew he must make. Looking up, he found Matthew watching him intently.

“Sure do like the sight of you in my clothes.” He murmured, stepping in for a kiss.

Clayton laughed. “I’m sure it ain’t that nice a sight. ‘S just a nightshirt, a damn big one at that.”

Matthew smoothed a hand over his hip. “You’d be surprised. Now, c’mon, let’s get you into bed before you fall asleep in my kitchen.” Matthew led him back into the bedroom and drew back the covers on his bed. “C’mon, in you go.”

“You gonna tuck me in? Give me a kiss goodnight?” Clayton teased.

**“**That was the intention, yes.” Matthew’s gaze was soft, and Clayton could only keep eye contact for a moment before the butterflies tangling in his stomach made him look away. It was too much, too quick, and he still wasn’t entirely used to the tenderness Matthew seemed intent on leveling his direction. “Not because I think you need it, but because I want to.” He touched Clayton’s cheek. “That okay with you, darlin’?”

Clayton settled on the bed with a hesitant nod, quickly shuffling back to lay down closest to the wall. As soon as he was horizontal his entire body sagged into the mattress. He let out a sigh of relief as tense muscles relaxed for the first time in what felt like days.

Matthew drew the blankets up over him, then sat down beside him and smoothed a hand over his hair. Clayton glanced up with heavy eyelids. “You ain’t gonna join me? Bed’s big enough for both of us.”

“I will – if you’re alright with that?” He waited for Clayton’s nod before gesturing back to the kitchen. “I’m going to clean myself up before I join you. I wanted to get you settled first.”

Clayton reached up with his good hand and tugged at Matthew’s shoulder until he came closer, drawing him into a kiss. “Thank you. For everything.” His voice was already slurred, sleep swiftly approaching.

“You’re welcome, darlin’. Anytime. Go to sleep now, okay? I’ll be back soon.” Clayton nodded and let his hand fall back to his side. Matthew’s weight left the side of the bed, and then he was out.

* * *

Clayton didn’t know where he was when he startled awake from a nightmare. It was dark, and the surface under him was soft. A noise drew his attention to the side, where he could just make out the shape of another person. Clayton struggled to get out of the bedding wrapped around him as the person beside him stirred awake. Sitting up, he caught a glimpse of his face. _Matthew. _He sagged as the memory of where he was returned, shuddering out the breath he had been holding. _You’re at the parsonage._

Matthew rolled towards him, letting loose a sleepy sound of confusion when he found Clayton sitting up. Clayton lay back down, and Matthew instantly wormed closer, shifting Clayton so he could settle under his arm and rest his head on Clayton’s chest. His voice was deep and slurred with sleep, and the sound of it instantly set Clayton at ease.

“Go back t’sleep, Clay. Yer okay.” He settled a heavy arm across Clayton’s waist, snuggling in close. Clayton rested his injured arm lightly across Matthew’s back, and got a hum of approval in response. He relaxed into the pillows, savoring the comforting weight across his torso. The sound of Matthew’s soft snoring resumed within minutes, and Clayton followed the sound back into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to one Matthew Mason for finally getting his shit together and smoochin' his cowboy. Scream at me in the comments if you feel like it! As always, kudos and comments are super appreciated!
> 
> Also – this is nearing the end? There will most likely either be one or three chapters left, depending on how ambitious I feel. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!


	7. Home (The First Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang are back in Deadwood, and Clayton adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Been a hot minute, huh? Hope all y’all are hanging in there during the pandemic. Sorry for the extra long wait, I needed a bit of a break from this fic – I wasn’t sure where I wanted to take it from here, lost a lot of motivation, and got caught up in other stuff. But I’m back to this one with ideas for the next few chapters ‘till we reach the end! As I said before, this will get finished, even if it takes a while. Hopefully this stupid long chapter makes up for the wait!  
Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, y’all are the best. And thanks to all y’all for sticking by, hope you enjoy the chapter <3
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: 
> 
> \- Issues with eating/food is a pretty big part of this one. I’ve added the “eating disorders" tag as well JIC, please be aware if that is a trigger.  
\- Same as the previous few chapters, warning for more anxiety, triggers, & trauma responses, as well as a bit of medical stuff.  
\- You may have noticed that I changed the rating to explicit! That’s because there’s a lil bit of smut in this one! If that’s not for you and you want to skip it, it starts after the phrase “you know, if you wanted me in your bed this afternoon, all you had to do was ask” and ends at the next page break. 
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> A note on the last chapter – I changed some minor stuff (because I’d planned something that didn’t make sense medically), so now they are returning to the doctor today for a proper splint instead of a cast (because you can’t cast over an open/infected wound, //shakes head at self). Feel free to read the changes if you want, but they’re fairly minor and you won’t miss anything if you don’t go back and re-read.
> 
> For those curious, Clayton’s splint is like dis one: 
> 
> https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/188708424/antique-wooden-medical-splint-by-walker?show_sold_out_detail=1&ref=anchored_listing 
> 
> (except for the left arm instead of the right). That one is actually from 1908, so 20ish years later, but I liked it enough to say “fuck it" and give Clayton a nice splint instead of a long awkward box for his arm. 
> 
> I think that’s all? Enjoy!

Clayton woke to warmth and a heaviness settled on his chest and pinning him to the bed. The warmth was a welcome change after a week of waking to cool mornings and dew gathered on his bedroll. Drifting in the haze of half awareness, it took him a moment to place the weight across his abdomen as Matthew, who hadn’t shifted from where he had sprawled across Clayton’s chest halfway through the night. His head was pillowed on Claytons chest, a heavy arm thrown over his waist. Clayton blinked his eyes open and peered down at the head pillowed on his chest. Matthew’s mouth was open and slack with sleep, hair tousled and curling at the edges. _Goddamn adorable, _Clayton thought, mouth curving into a soft smile.

Closing his eyes, he tried to return to sleep but quickly found it an impossible task. While Matthew’s weight was comforting and grounding, waking made him aware of the uncomfortable pressure it placed across his bruised ribs. His broken arm, slung carefully across Matthew’s shoulders, was numb and he knew he needed to move it soon, even if it would bring pins and needles and that ever-constant pain. He gave himself more time, relishing the sound of Matthew’s steady breathing and the warmth of his body, until the pressure on his ribs started to turn from _discomfort_ into _pain_.

He started by trying to wiggle out from under Matthew, but that plan was quickly thwarted when Matthew snuffed at his chest and tightened the arm around his waist, pinning him further. Clayton grinned and moved his other arm up to stroke at Matthew’s tousled hair. “Matthew.” Matthew groaned and snuggled closer, pressing into his hand. “Matty, need you to let me up.”

Matthew opened his eyes and blinked up at him sleepily, confusion plain on his face. “Clay?” his voice was drowsy and deep with sleep. “Why’re you here?”

Clayton smiled and kept stroking his hair. “You asked me to stay, remember?”

Matthew’s eyes drifted shut and he hummed and nuzzled Clayton’s chest. Clayton jostled his shoulder lightly. “Need you to let me up before you go back to sleep, Matthew.”

Matthew mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a “no" and snuggled closer, digging his face into Clayton’s chest. Clayton bit his lip to contain a gasp of pain and pushed more insistently at Matthew’s shoulder. “Matty, let me up.” His voice was strangled and Matthew immediately shifted off of him, tugging Clayton’s numb arm with him. _Oh, **fuck** _was all the thought that he got out before his arm was sliding against Matthew’s back, numbness and pain mixing in dizzying cocktail of sensations. Clayton grabbed at Matthew’s shoulder before he could move any further, nails digging in. 

“_Fuck_, wait.” Matthew froze, and Clayton shuddered underneath him, willing the pain to stop.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” A thumb stroked his ribcage, and Matthew’s worried eyes peered up into his face when he blinked open his eyes.

Clayton shot him a strained smile. “Yeah, just… my arm. Here, can you…” he carefully lifted the unwieldy limb off Matthew’s back with his other hand and maneuvered it over him, holding it up and out of the way as Matthew slid off him fully. As soon as Matthew was gone he struggled upright and curled over the limb, groaning as life and agony flooded back into his limb.

“Fuck. Did it break again?” Matthew sat up beside him, sounding panicked in a way he hadn’t on the trail.

“It’s fine,” Clayton gasped, clenching his eyes shut as pins and needles took over the whole limb. “Just fell asleep, that’s all. I’ve got fucking pins and needles.”

“Sorry, darlin'. Shoulda thought of that last night.”

Matthew’s hand settled on his back and started rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. Clayton leaned back into it and exhaled with his whole body, sighing as the pins and needles dissipated. He flexed his hand, grimacing at the pain that had returned as the numbness fled.

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m the dumbass who didn’t get you to move.”

Matthew leaned closer, pressed his chest against Clayton’s back and hooked his chin over his shoulder. The hand on his back wound round to settle on his hip, warm and solid through the thin fabric of the nightgown he was wearing. Matthew pressed a kiss to Clayton’s cheek, beard brushing his neck.

“Never did say good morning.”

Clayton smiled and settled his weight more fully against him, turned his head and kissed him properly, a slow press of lips sliding together.

“Morning,” he breathed, when they separated. Matthew smiled and leaned in again, coaxing his way past Clayton’s lips, dipping his tongue just into Clayton’s mouth. His mouth tasted stale after the night of sleeping, but Clayton didn’t care, was simply glad that he could finally revel in the way Matthew’s mouth felt against his own. He could still hardly believe last night was _real_, and wasn’t simply some fever dream his mind had cooked up. _God, how did I get this lucky?_

Matthew shifted backwards, pulling him along until they were lying down face to face. “This okay on your arm?” he murmured, hand stroking through Clayton’s hair.

Clayton shifted himself to a more comfortable position then nodded. “What time is it? Shouldn’t we be leaving soon?”

Matthew rolled over enough to see the clock, then settled back down, inching forward and sealing their lips together once more. “We’ve got enough time.”

* * *

They lay together in bed for as long as they could, twined around each other and trading lazy kisses, watching the clock and dreading having to make their way to the Gem.

“How you feeling this morning, anyway?” Matthew asked as they finally separated.

“Fine,” Clayton said, moving slowly to strip out of the nightshirt Matthew had lent him. Matthew shot him a disbelieving look, and he relented with a huff. “Sore. Tired.”

In truth, he was a mass of aches and pains, just like every other morning since he’d been shot, strangled, and beat to shit. His arm hurt, his shoulder pinched, his throat was tight and sore, and his ribs and head ached; it was hard to find a spot on his body that didn’t have something to complain about. The look Matthew gave him suggested he knew he was downplaying things, but he didn’t call him on it.

“Should ask Miriam if she’s got any peppermint or something for the pain. I know you didn’t want morphine, but she might have something lighter.”

Clayton shrugged. “Can ask her, sure. It’ll pass eventually, always does.”

Matthew stopped rifling through his dresser to watch him. “You been hurt like this before?”

“Not like this,” Clayton scoffed. “Been beat to shit, sure, but not like this. Ain’t never broken any bones. Been shot before too, but normally it’s just one or the other, y’know? Damn unlucky this time.” 

“That’s one way to put it,” Matthew said. “You’ll tell me if anything gets worse?”

Clayton shrugged again. “If you’d like. Not sure what good it’ll do, but sure.”

Matthew came over and leaned down to kiss him. “Please do. How you’re feeling is important to me, okay? Even if there’s nothing I can do to make it better.”

A wave of emotion rushed through him, and Clayton held his breath until the ache in his ribs overtook the urge to cry, giving Matthew a small smile. “Okay.” He paused, then forced the words out. “How you are is important to me, too.” Matthew beamed, and he flushed red. “So it goes both ways, okay?”

“Deal.” Matthew handed Clayton his clothing from the day before, then crossed back to his dresser and stripped off the undershirt he was wearing. Clayton clutched the bundle tightly and stared. He’d known Matthew was strong, but it was another thing to see the expanse of his broad, muscled chest right in front of him. And _holy shit_ those _arms_ and that _chest hair_, and the softness of his stomach over the solid core that Clayton know was there. He was gorgeous, and Clayton _wanted. _

“We could just stay here,” Clayton suggested as he turned his attention to his own clothing. Matthew didn’t seem to have noticed his staring, and that was probably for the best. He grimaced at his sweat and blood-stained shirt in his hands, regretting not having his belongings here so he’d have something clean to change into. _At least they’re dry now,_ he thought.

Matthew shot him an amused look. “And what, have Miss Miriam bangin’ on my door within the hour? You know as well as I do that she’ll come find us if we don’t show.” He made his way to the small dresser in the room and started pulling out fresh clothing. “Here.” He tossed an undershirt, then a clean white button-up onto the bed beside Clayton. “Wear one of mine, it’s clean and has two sleeves.” He looked up and down Clayton’s form. “I’d give you some trousers but somehow I doubt they’d stay up. We’ll have to go pick up your things after we see the Doc.”

Clayton scowled and finished tugging on his trousers, them the undershirt. “Don’t see why we have to go back.” He grabbed the shirt and started unbuttoning it awkwardly, trying to make use of both hands despite the pain it brought.

Matthew came over and helped him maneuver the shirtsleeve over his broken arm, leaving it unbuttoned at the wrist, then started on the main buttons once his other arm was through. “Arabella and the Doc seem to think a better splint is necessary, so I’m of the opinion that we follow their directives.” He smiled and pressed a kiss against the scowl that was still present on Clayton’s face. “Why’re you so against the doctor, anyhow?”

Clayton flushed and looked away, crossing his arms then immediately dropping the position with a grimace. _Goddamn injuries. _“Just don’t like it, s’all.” Matthew quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, and Clayton huffed and kicked lightly at his shin. “It’s fucking uncomfortable, okay? Besides, I’ve been tending my own wounds for years, don’t see why that should change now. It’s kept me alive so far.”

Matthew pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his brow. “I know it’s uncomfortable, sweetheart. I know. But just because you’ve managed to keep yourself alive doesn’t mean you don’t deserve more.”

Everything in him squirmed in discomfort. He looked away, hands suddenly trembling against the bedsheets. “Ain’t sure that’s true, Matty.” Matthew stroked a hand gently over his cheek, and he shut his eyes, chest heavy and tight. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Soft lips pressed warmly against his cheek, just under the bandage wound around his head, as Matthew twined their fingers together. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done.” He squeezed Clayton’s hand. “We’ve all done things we regret, Clay. But that doesn’t mean that we, or you, don’t deserve to be taken care of. Okay?” 

Clayton nodded, still not looking at him, still not really believing what he said but not wanting to argue about it. Matthew didn’t know, _couldn’t _know how little he deserved, but maybe it was better that way. Maybe Matthew would stay with him if he believed Clayton was someone worth keeping.

“Alright.” He cleared his throat and squeezed Matthew’s hand, then let go to pull on his suspenders. “Shall we go?”

Matthew smiled ruefully. “Sure.” He stood up and held a hand out to Clayton, who took it with an eyeroll, allowing himself to be tugged to his feet. “Someday, Clayton Sharpe, someday I’ll get you to believe that you’re deserving. Just you wait.”

Clayton flushed and ducked his head. _How in the hell do you respond to something like that? _He tugged at his shirt collar, noticing abruptly that shirt Matthew had loaned him was huge, swamping his smaller form.

“I must be a sight, holy hell this shirt is big.” He eyes Matthew’s broad shoulders and long arms, then the sleeves of his shirt. “Damn, we gotta pick up some of my clothes today.”

Matthew took in the way the fabric hung loose around his wrists and shoulders, neck gaping despite being buttoned all the way. Clayton tugged on the neck and was suddenly glad that it wasn’t tight around his neck, which still felt swollen and sore.

“Well, it’s not the best fit, but you look mighty endearing,” Matthew said with a smile. “To me, at least.” He reached over and toyed with the edge of one shirtsleeve, examining Clayton’s wrist before doing up the cuff. A tinge of worry emerged in his voice and smile. “It would’ve been big anyway, but you loosing weight hasn’t helped,” he muttered.

Clayton tensed, not ready to discuss food or his apparent weight loss. They were all making such a big deal about it when it was _fine_; he'd survived on far less in the past and knew he’d survive it again. Hell, he’d gotten though the first three days of this whole shitshow with hardly any food, and he’d get through it again until his stomach stopped roiling at the thought of eating**_. _**

“Should’ve asked the doctor about it,” Matthew continued, not noticing the change in mood.

“It’s fine, Matthew,” he said, pulling away from his grasp and heading for the door. He grabbed his duster and held it out to Matthew. “Help me with this?”

Matthew nodded and helped him tug it on, not bothering to put his broken arm through the broken sleeve. Clayton held out the gun belt next, and Matthew stepped in close to loop it around his hips, leaning in for a kiss after he threaded the buckle, big hands warm on Clayton’s hips.

“C’mon, Reverend,” Clayton said, breathless as he broke the kiss, pleased to have distracted Matthew from pressing the issue. “Gonna be late, and then we’ll have hell to pay.”

* * *

They were both quiet on the walk to the Gem. Clayton could feel the weight of Matthew’s gaze on him frequently as they walked, and he tried his best to ignore the flutter in his chest every time it happened. Not for the first time in his life, he wished that two men could openly hold hands in public without risking a lynching. He’d love to wrap himself up in Matthew, but knew it would have to wait. It had been so _long_ since he’d had the kindness of a partner, and he found himself craving Matthew’s touch, no matter how simple it was. Matthew’s elbow brushed his as they walked, and he wondered if the other man was feeling the same way.

It wasn’t only the longing for Matthew’s hands on his body that left him wishing they’d stayed at the parsonage. They’d only just left the house and he was already tired, and dreading the hustle and bustle of the Deadwood thoroughfare. His ankle was throbbing, and he was trying not to limp or show exactly how unpleasant walking was. He pulled his hat low over his face at the thought of being noticed in his sorry state, and drifted into Matthew’s shadow. To his credit, Matthew seemed to notice his reluctance to be seen and led the way with his shoulders squared.

The thing was - as much as he would have loved for one night of rest in a real bed to have fixed his body and eased his pains, that simply wasn’t realistic. He was still sore, aching all over, and more exhausted than ever. He was getting tired of feeling awful all the time, but knew recovery would be a long path. While it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been concussed, shot, or beaten, he didn’t think he’d ever had to heal from all three at once, let alone with a broken arm and infected wounds. He was hoping Matthew wouldn’t notice, but he had felt the chill of fever run its fingers down his spine since leaving the house. _Really should’ve just stayed in bed,_ he thought, knowing full well that neither Matthew nor Miriam would allow him to miss the follow-up with Doc Ashby.

“Breakfast then the Bullock?” Matthew asked, weaving around a hawker towards the Gem. Clayton nodded, throat tight with anxiety, and followed at his heels. He followed Matthew into the Gem, and they were quickly waved over to a corner in the back where Miriam and Aly sat nursing coffee. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dan at the bar glance up and down his form, frowning at the sight of his face and arm bundled in the sling. He nudged Johnny, whispering something that made Johnny nod and disappears upstairs. Clayton ducked further under his hat, glaring at anyone who happened to make eye contact, and followed Matthew to their table. He sat in the corner beside Miriam, grateful that they’d left his usual spot open for him. The itching between his shoulder blades and thrumming of his heart had lessened considerably now that he had his back to a wall and was out of eyeshot of the busyness of the thoroughfare.

Miriam smiled brightly and pushed a cup of coffee to him, while Matthew settled in the chair at his other side. “Morning Reverend, Mister Sharpe. Rest well?”

“Most well, thank you Miss Miriam. Good to be back in a real bed.”

Aly quirked an eyebrow at both of them. “You made Clay take the couch?”

Matthew turned beet red. “Well. No. You know what I mean, Aloysius, something that isn’t the damn ground.”

Aly laughed and handed Matthew one of the remaining cups of coffee, just as Arabella bustled into the Gem and made her way to their table.

“Sorry I’m late, y’all, hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Nah, the Reverend and Clay just got here a minute ago,” Aly said, sliding the last cup of coffee her way. He waved at Johnny, who quickly approached. “Could we have some breakfast, Johnny? Somethin' hearty, beans, bacon if you’ve got it, some flapjacks.” He looked around for confirmation at the rest of them. Clayton swallowed down the rising nausea at the thought of a full breakfast, and shook his head.

“Just some sourdough biscuits for me, Johnny.” He caught a glimpse of Miriam’s glare and Matthew’s frown from the corner of his eye but kept his eyes on Johnny.

“Sure thing, Mister Fogg, Mister Sharpe. Be out soon.”

Miriam waited until Johnny was out of earshot before rounding on him. “Just biscuits, Clayton? You sure?”

He raises an eyebrow at her and takes a long sip of his coffee. “Yes Miriam, just biscuits. Can make my own choices about what I eat, you know.” He doesn’t tell her that the thought of eggs and bacon make him want to hurl. Maybe on the road he would’ve, but not *here*, not with Dan and Johnny pretending not to be listening as they polished the bar, not with other patrons around even this early in the day, glancing at his busted nose and bandaged forehead.

Miriam frowned and opened her mouth to speak but Matthew beat her to it. “That you can. And I’m sure you can always order more if that changes.”

Clayton nodded in agreement and gave a small smile to Miriam to mollify her. “Just ain’t that hungry, Miss Miriam, you know how it goes.” She nodded, still frowning, but shifted her attention when Arabella cleared her throat.

“Not to change the subject, but y’all remember to clean Clayton’s wrists this morning?” Matthew flushed red again as Clayton groaned, leaning his head against the wall behind him. Arabella’s voice sharpened. “Y’all _did_ remember, right?”

They exchanged a look, discussing without words, before Matthew groaned and confessed. “No, Arabella, I will admit that it slipped both of our minds.” He held up a hand to soothe her ire. “We’re going to see the Doc soon, we can see if he’ll do it. Don’t mind paying for some extra care.”

“Alright,” she said, nodding. “But if y’all forget again I’ll make it my duty to come change your bandages morning and evening, Clay.”

He grimaced at the thought of yet another insistent nurse-maid. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

Arabella smiled over her coffee, just a hint of a threat playing out on her face. “See that it doesn’t.”

Another few minutes of idle chatter passed before Johnny returned with plates of food, passing them around the table for each person. Clayton picked at the hot biscuits piled on his plate as the others tucked into their meals, tearing off a piece and taking a small bite before Miriam could comment. He hadn’t been lying; he wasn’t hungry, the exhaustion and slight nausea that still lingered no doubt decreasing his appetite. He was still foggy too, that lingering sense that the world was wrapped in muslin that seemed to come out every time he was tired, compounded by the hum of anxiety that still lingered despite the comfort of the familiar surroundings. It made it easy to let the conversation around him wash over him, only responding when someone called for his attention, trying all the while to present like he was engaged and present. The concerned glances coming his way from Matthew made him suspect he wasn’t overly successful, but he couldn’t gather his energy or his mind enough to make a better effort.

Eventually he made it through one biscuit before giving up. He settled back and sipped at his coffee, hoping none of the others would notice. Alas, it was only a few minutes before a rasher of bacon slid onto his plate. Clayton scowled at the hand delivering it, then turned the scowl to Matthew, who simply raised an eyebrow at him. “Just try it, Clay,” he murmured, elbow brushing against Clayton’s in reassurance. “If it doesn’t sit well that’s fine, but worth a try.”

“Think I’ll pass, but thanks,” he muttered, returning to his coffee and drawing in on himself. When he glanced back up Matthew looked crestfallen and worried, and he kicked himself internally. “Fuck, _fine_.”

He ripped the bacon into pieces, picking at it the same way he had his biscuit. Sometimes smaller bites were easier to handle, easier to convince his stomach that it was fine to eat. Matthew settled a hand on his knee briefly under the table as he swallowed his first bite, and Clayton forced himself not to blush at the contact.

“Thank you, Clay.”

He nodded, then glanced around their table. No one seemed to be watching, so he dropped his hand below the table and laid his hand over Matthew’s. Matthew turned his palm over and laced their fingers together, squeezing tightly, holding on for as long as he dared before retreating to his own lap. Clayton smiled to himself, then took another bite before anyone could notice. 

* * *

Breakfast ended without further fanfare, and they left for Doc Ashby's office. Aly took his leave, heading off to “take care of something,” and Clayton couldn’t blame him. Hell, he wouldn’t be there either if the other three weren’t dragging him along.

“Don’t think all three of you need to come,” he muttered as they walked along, Miriam at his elbow, Arabella and Matthew slightly ahead. “I could’ve just gone on my own.”

“Don’t be silly, Clay,” Miriam said back, just as quietly, heeding the passerbyers on the street. “You know as well as I do that you’d never make it there if we didn’t accompany you. There’s no way Arabella would miss seeing an arm plastered, and I don’t think the Reverend is liable to let you out of his sights right now.” She grinned at the look he shot her and nudged his arm. “Just be glad Aloysius didn’t seem to notice Matthew holding your hand under the table or I’m sure this morning’s conversation would have gone quite differently. ‘Took the couch' my ass.” She snorted as Clayton flushed bright red.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

“Mhm, I’m sure you don’t.” Clayton’s gut swooped at the thought of someone knowing. Miriam was a good sort, but still…

“Miriam, don’t… don’t say anything, okay? Please?”

Her face softened in understanding and she squeezed his elbow. “Don’t worry sugar. I ain’t about to out you, Lord knows you’re due for some happiness.” He finally met her smile, blush still staining his cheeks. “Besides,” she said softly, “it’d be a bit hypocritical of me to talk about something like that.”

He looked at her in confusion. “What?”

Her gaze strays ahead to Arabella, whose tall, willowy form cut a fine path through the thoroughfare beside Matthew. “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?” she said wistfully, voice so quiet he could hardly hear her.

“Oh.” Clayton kicked himself for not noticing sooner. He normally prided himself on being good at observation, at noticing things, but lately he’d missed so much. “Yes, yes she is,” he said, just as soft.

Miriam squeezed his elbow again. “Maybe good luck will smile on us both.”

“Hope so, Miss Miriam. Hope so.”

* * *

Doc Ashby welcomed them in when they knocked, and directed them into the same room from the previous day. Several long, curiously shaped pieces of wood were laid out on the table, along with strips of linen and several larger folded bandages. Doc Ashby gestured for Clayton to sit once more in the chair beside it.

“Doc, before you get started, our good Reverend clean forgot to tend Mister Sharpe’s wrists this morning. Would you be willing to clean them, or should we do so after the procedure?” Arabella asked with an apologetic look.

Doc Ashby nodded and made for the door. “Of course. Mister Sharpe, if you could please roll up your shirtsleeve while I get the necessary supplies.”

Matthew once again helped Clayton with his shirt, and when Doc Ashby returned he changed the dressings on Clayton’s wrists, reminding Matthew to change them throughout the day if they became wet or soiled. After it was done he set about removing Clayton’s makeshift splint that was still in place on his arm, and started explaining its replacement.

“This splint won’t completely immobilize your limb, but it should be more stable than what you’ve got currently. As I said last night, normally I would prefer to cast your arm in plaster as it is much more secure, but unfortunately that is simply not possible due to the nature of your other wounds. You will have to be very careful with this arm, understood? Light work only, and no weight on the limb.”

Clayton remained silent during his explanations, only nodding when it seemed necessary, letting Matthew and Arabella ask questions and clarifications. The process went smoothly, or as smoothly as it could. Arabella hovered over Doc Ashby’s shoulder, asking question after question, as the Doc wrapped Clayton’s arm securely with linen strips before setting the arm in the splint and starting to tie it on, showing Arabella and Matthew the proper places to secure the splint so they could help take it on and off when changing the bandages on his wrist.

Clayton tried not to fidget too hard, sitting with his friends watching and the doctor too close for comfort. Once again a strange combination of anxiety and exhaustion rushed through him, adding weight to his limbs and quickening his breath. He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to catch Matthew’s eye and either alert him or fall too deeply into his gaze. A small part of him wished Matthew could be holding his hand, while the rest of him recoiled at needing such comfort. New worries of _what if the doctor notices we’re together, what if everybody notices, _were starting to creep into his mind and accompany the ever-present thoughts about his own lack of strength, his own shortcomings in all of this.

And then it was finally over. Clayton relaxed as the doctor moved away, washing his hands in the basin in the room.

“Now it will take some time for your arm to heal, and you’ll need to wear this throughout. If your wrist wound heals completely during that time we can discuss applying a plaster cast for the duration of the healing process. I would recommend either returning here or having your friend re-bandage your arm as needed, perhaps weekly, as snug bandages will help to keep the bones secure. I’d like to see you again next week to check on the progression of your wounds as well.”

“How long exactly do I gotta wear it, Doc?” Clayton asked.

“Two months, give or take a week,” Doc Ashby said. “It takes some time for a bone to heal.”

“Two fucking months?” Clayton hissed, heart plummeting into his stomach.

Arabella looked at him in confusion. “I told you it would take a while at breakfast. Do you not remember?”

He wracked his brain, but only came up blank. Breakfast was a bit of a blur; he remembered some bits of conversation, but not much. “No?” he hazarded, looking at her, then at Matthew, who nodded to show it had happened. “Fuck. No, I don’t remember.”

“You did look a bit out of it…” Arabella mused. A hand touched his forehead and Clayton startled, yanking his head back and catching the hand, teeth bared in a snarl and shoulder screaming at the abrupt movement. The hand belonged to Doc Ashby, who was much closer than before, bending over to look at Clayton’s face with a surprised expression.

“_Ask_ before you touch or I’ll break your fucking hand.” Doc Ashby paled and quickly backed away, then readjusted his suitcoat and sent a reproachful look at Matthew and Miriam.

“Keep your friend in line or I won’t be quite so willing to assist you in the future.”

Matthew stepped beside Clayton’s chair and laid a hand on his shoulder, a touch that he had no doubt was meant to be grounding but simply felt like a restraint. He shrugged it off, ignoring the quiet noise that came from behind him. Miriam stood as well and stepped close to the doctor, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

“We do apologize, good Doctor Ashby, you must understand that our poor friend has been through quite the ordeal. Poor thing, he’s quite nervous now, as you can see. I’m sure it won’t happen again, and I’m sure a wonderful doctor like yourself can warn him before you need to do any physical examinations.”

Doc Ashby huffed and looked between her and Matthew. “Yes, I can do that. I was going to advise that you keep an eye on any changes to memory, that sort of thing, as that can occur with a wound to the head. Although it would be wise to check for fever as well, infection can addle the brain.” He nodded to Arabella. “Perhaps your friend would be more willing for Mrs. Whitlock to take his temperature if I provide a thermometer.”

Clayton seethed inside as they all turned to look at him. He scowled and looked down at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Would that be okay, Clayton?” Arabella asked softly, as Doc Ashby started rummaging around for a thermometer.

“Hardly seems necessary,” he spat. “Ain’t like it makes any lick of difference if I have a fever or not.”

“It’d be helpful in case you get worse,” she said. “It would give us a point of comparison.” He looked up at her as she took the thermometer from Doc Ashby, coming closer with an eyebrow raised. “It would make me feel better, but you don’t have to.”

“Fine,” he sighed, anger starting to fade.

“I’ll just step out while you wait for a reading,” Doc Ashby said, already half-way out the door. Clayton grinned, and Arabella smiled back.

“You’re gonna scare the new doctor half to death,” she said quietly once the door was closed. “Alright, open up.”

Things were quiet while they waited for the temperature reading, the others conversing softly around Clayton about plans for the rest of the day. Once again he zoned them out, only paying attention when Arabella leaned over to check on the thermometer. Eventually Doc Ashby returned, and she took it from his mouth, checking it before passing it over.

“You do have a slight fever,” Doc Ashby said with a frown. “Nothing too concerning, and it is to be expected with the infection in your wrists, but it would do you good to rest as much as possible.” He looked to Matthew then. “Anything else?”

“Doc, I forgot to ask last night –“ Clayton glared at Matthew, sure that he wouldn’t like what was going to come out of his mouth next. Matthew either didn’t notice or ignored him and continued speaking**.** “Clayton hasn’t been eating much, and he’s thrown up a couple of times when he does manage something – got any idea why?”

“Reverend, it’s fucking _fine_,” Clayton barked, fury sweeping through him as his heart pounded triple time in his chest, the calm that had briefly re-asserted itself as Arabella took his temperature totally gone. Miriam leaned over and places a hand on his knee and he fell silent, knowing there was no support there.

“Let him ask, honey, you know we’re worried,” she murmured. He avoided her gaze and fumed at the floor. _Fucking hell, why won’t they leave it the fuck alone?_ Matthew glanced at him apologetically then returned his attention to Doc Ashby.

“Change in appetite is very normal, given the extent of his injuries. Vomiting and nausea is quite common with a head injury as well.” Doc Ashby walked over to Clayton and waited until he had his attention.

“Eat rich foods, young man, if you’re not going to be eating much. It’s important that you keep up your strength as you heal.”

Clayton glowered at him, then at Matthew. “My eating is fucking fine. I know what I’m doing.” Matthew squared himself, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything in the last few days, Clay. Just this morning you looked about to hurl when I offered you some bacon.”

Doc Ashby looked at him with consideration. “Does your throat hurt when you eat?”

The question caught him off guard, and he thought back to that morning. It did, and he hadn’t even _noticed_ with all the other shit going on, all the other pains and the nausea that seemed to overrule it. He’d just blocked it out and kept going. “Yes,” Clayton ground out, still glowering.

“I should have expected as much, given the damage to your neck. Strangulation can leave the throat sore for some time. Try soups, soft breads, that sort of thing.” He turned his attention to Matthew. “Do keep an eye on his weight. He’s not the sort of man who can afford to lose much.” Matthew nodded, and Doc Ashby looked around the room again. “If that’s all, then I must attend to my other duties. Which one of you will be seeing to payment?”

“That’d be me,” Matthew said, pulling out a bag of gold.

“Wonderful. If you’ll follow me please, we can settle the debt in my office.” They both left the room, followed a moment later by Arabella, who whispered something to Miriam about medical journals.

Miriam looked at Clayton, far too much concern in her eyes. “You okay, honey? You seem pretty upset.”

He tried his best to smile, not wanting to let the simmering anger explode. “Just fine, Miss Miriam.” She just kept watching him, and finally he looked away, face going blank again. _I can’t do this. _“Would you… would you give me a moment? Just need to collect myself.”

“Sure, honey. Holler if you need us,” she said softly, slipping out the door after the others. He buried his head in his hand, trying to keep his breathing slow. He couldn’t believe Matthew would ask the Doc that, couldn’t believe they wouldn’t just leave it the fuck alone. He was so _frustrated_, so goddamn tired of being watched and mothered. Setting his resolve, he scooped up his coat and went to the door, opening it as quietly as he could. Miriam was nowhere to be seen, butt he heard voices down the hall, likely in the Doctor’s office.

“_…cannot ignore the possibility that Mister Sharpe is experiencing some disordering of the mind. I’ve not met him before, I don’t know if that sort of aggression is typical…”_

His blood boiled again. _Fuck this_. He glanced down the hallway once more, then headed out the front door.

* * *

Clayton limped his way down the thoroughfare in the direction of the Bullock, hat pulled low over his face, still carrying his coat. The heavy leather duster was too much to pull on with his broken arm, so he’d settled for carrying it over his arm and hoping to god he wouldn’t attract too much attention dressed down as he was, and looking beat to shit to boot. He tried not to regret leaving without any of his companions, without Matthew’s solid presence beside him, as the anxiety of being out on the streets spiked unpleasantly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that people were _looking_ at him, focusing only on him as they passed by. Before all of this, he had started to finally get comfortable on the streets of Deadwood, to stop watching over his shoulder everywhere he went. _And look how that worked out_.

The splint was far more stable than the makeshift one Arabella had created, but it was heavy and cumbersome, and he could already tell he’d be irritated with it before long despite the necessary support it gave. The sling around his neck pinched with the added weight, pulling in an uncomfortable way. He could feel his already bad mood worsen as the pain mixed with the frustration, anger, and anxiety into a dizzying mix of emotions. 

Before long he was passing through the doors of the Bullock, and the anxiety quieted to a dull hum. Walking to the front desk, he knocked on the wood to catch the attention of the hotelkeeper who was caught in his books.

“Ah, Mister Sharpe, good to see you back. Wasn’t sure you’d be returning, to be honest, but you’re paid up ‘till the end of the week so we held your room.” The hotelkeeper looked at him curiously. “Look like you maybe ran into some trouble there, huh.”

Clayton just stared at him in silence. The hotelkeeper muttered a hasty apology and handed him his room key, which Clayton took without a word, making his way slowly up the stairs to his room.

Climbing the stairs took far more energy than it should have required, and after entering his room Clayton stumbled over to the chair, nearly collapsing into it with a sigh of relief._ God, I’m tired._

He let himself sit for a few minutes, catching his breath and trying to slow the throbbing in his head, before finally starting to gather his things to take to the parsonage. Even in his anger he knew that he couldn’t just leave, and that he both needed and wanted to return to Matthew soon. He just needed space, time to cool down, to let himself process the bullshit that had just taken place.

He was almost finished when pounding footsteps sounded down the hallway, rushing towards his door. _Shit._ He was reaching for his gun as the door burst open, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. Matthew stormed through the door, not even seeming to notice the hand Clayton had on his gun. His face washed with relief, then anger, and he whirled around and thundered back down the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs to holler down. “Found him, Miss Miriam!”

Clayton tuned him out, ignoring the sound of Miriam calling back about God knows what. _Fucking unbelievable._ More words were exchanged down the hallway, and then Matthew was back, slamming the door closed behind him. Clayton fought not to jump at the sudden noise and the fury that he could feel radiating off Matthew. His heart started pounding again as fear and anger swept back through him in kind.

“Clayton! Matthew’s voice was a curious combination of furious and terrified. “Why’d you just leave? Fuck, we were so _worried._”

Clayton’s jaw tightened and he kept looking at his pack, needlessly rearranging things before working the buckles with one hand. “Needed space.”

“_Needed space?_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Clay. Did you even think that maybe we’d be worried that you’d been taken again?”

_Fuck. _“Nope. Y’all don’t need to be worried about me.” He still wasn’t looking at Matthew, keeping his focus needlessly on his bag.

“Don’t need to be worried, huh? Shit, Clay, anything could happen, this is _Deadwood_.” Matthew sighed and deflated, anger dwindling as Clayton’s climbed higher. “Next time take me with you, okay? We can leave the others behind if you need to be alone. Someone should be there to protect you if shit goes down.”

Clayton stood up and finally turned to face him. “I don’t need you to protect me.” His hands were shaking and he couldn’t be sure if it was from frustration or exhaustion. He was so _tired_, tired of feeling like shit and being in pain all the time, tired of the coddling, tired of being talked over, tired of decisions being out of his hands, tired of feeling so goddamn _useless_. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Matthew’s help or like the feeling of safety that came with being around him – it was that he was so very tired of needing it, and angry that he wasn’t trusted to be by himself for five fucking minutes. And he was _furious_ that Matthew had pushed about the food, that he couldn’t fucking well leave it alone.

“And I don’t need you to fucking _mother_ me, to watch what I eat, what I do, fucking everywhere I go.” He was shouting now, fists clenched at his sides and nearly vibrating with nerves. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the thin walls of the hotel, and the possibility of listening ears, and dropped his voice to a hiss. “I’m not a goddamn _child._”

“I know you’re not, Clay, I –“ Matthew held his hands up in supplication.

“Then stop fucking treating me like one, okay? I am more than fucking capable of minding myself.”

“This is about the food thing, huh?” Matthew said, understanding crossing his face.

“_Yes, _it’s about the goddamn food thing.” _Fuck, this is going badly. Just like me to push away the one good thing in my life. _But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t slow the anger. “I been taking care of myself for fifteen fucking years, I been without food before and you can damn well be sure it’ll happen again. I can take care of myself, Mason.”

“I’m sorry,” Matthew blurted, before he could continue his rant. “I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve talked to you first. I just…” he took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m just worried, okay? I didn’t think, thought I knew best, and I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” Clayton muttered, leaning back against the desk behind him. 

“I’m not going to stop worrying, and I’m not going to stop wanting you to eat more. I know myself better than that. But I’ll try to stop pushing.”

“It’s not just the food,” Clayton said through gritted teeth. “I fucking heard you with the doctor, talking some shit about my “disordered mind”. Don’t need y’all to be talking about me behind my back. And I ain’t fucking crazy.”

“Clayton, I know you’re not.” Matthew pitched his voice quieter, into that tone that made Clayton feel he was being gentled. And it was working, his heart rate starting to slow as his anger started to ebb. “I’m sorry, I had no intention of speaking behind your back. Doc Ashby started talking as soon as he had me alone, I had no idea he was going to do that. And he’s wrong, you’re not crazy. I told him as much.” Matthew quirked a smile. “You can tell he’s new to Deadwood, he doesn’t know that half the men here would have threatened to do worse.”

Clayton grimaced. “Fucker’s lucky I didn’t punch him. Probably would’ve if my hand weren’t in a fucking sling.”

Matthew’s smile grew. “I don’t doubt it.” He paused for another moment. “Next time will you please wait for me, then you can ream me out when we’re alone? It’s hard to keep an eye on you when I have no idea where you are.” He held up a hand before Clayton could interrupt. “I know you said you don’t need protectin’, but it’d make me feel a whole lot better.”

“Look. I know y’all are worried,” Clayton said, frustration still rolling through him. “But you don’t need to ‘keep an eye on me’, or lose your shit every time I’m out of eyesight. I’m a grown-ass man, I can take care of myself just fine.” He ignored the voice that questioned if he could, the voice that reminded him that he’d felt better with Matthew at his side. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the frustration and anxiety that came with being watched all the time by his companions or the fear of being caught alone again.

“I know. I know you can. But please, keep me with you when you’re out, or one of the others. Just until you’re healed, okay?”

Clayton shook his head. “No. Y’all need to accept that I’m gonna be out and about without you. I don’t need you to protect me, okay?”

Matthew’s voice shifted, determination taking hold. “Clay. Listen, I know you think you don’t. And you’re still damn good with a gun, but you’re hurt.” He held up a hand before Clayton could interject, letting fear and worry bleed into his tone. “You’re _so fucking hurt_, and it makes me so fucking scared that one of the assholes who lives here will see that you’re not as quick on the draw as you normally are and will try to be quicker. All it would take is one man who’s pissed that you looked at him wrong two weeks ago and that could be it.” Matthew stepped close, and Clayton tilted his head up to meet him, mouth a stubborn line. “You almost _died,_ Clayton. I had to watch you get _shot in the head.”_ One of his big hands came up to trace the bandage along Clayton’s temple. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never been more terrified in my life.”

All of his lingering anger and frustration vanished as Matthew’s words hit him. “Matthew…”

Matthew’s mouth ticked upwards in a hint of a smile. “So humor me, okay? I know it’s a blow to constantly feel watched over, but there’s a part of me that panics anytime I can’t see you. I _just_ got you, I can’t lose you. Not again, not now.”

Clayton nodded and turned his head to press his lips softly against the pulse point on Matthew’s wrist. “Okay, Matty. Okay. I just… feel like I can’t do anything right now. Can’t even fucking _dress_ myself.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “I ain’t had to tell someone where I was going or have someone follow me around since I was five years old. But I’ll try. I’ll try. It just makes me jittery, is all.”

Matthew’s face softened as the determination fled his face. He slid his hand to the back of Claytons head and pulled him into a hug, tucking Clayton’s face into his chest and resting his chin on the top of Clayton’s head, wrapping his other arm firmly around his back. Clayton relaxed into the hold and pressed in close, nerves finally calmed down. “I know. And I’m sorry, I’m so damn sorry we need to protect you and help you right now. I’ll try to understand when it makes you jittery, okay? I… I get the sense being watched isn’t your favorite thing.”

Clayton nodded and spoke, voice muffled by Matthew’s shirt. “Makes it hard to think. Sometimes feels like I'm gonna crawl out of my own skin.” Matthew squeezed him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

They stood like that for a long few minutes, then Clayton tilted his head up and pressed a kiss to the underside of Matthew’s jaw. Matthew smiled and glanced down at him. “Don’t mind so much when it’s you that’s watching me, though.”

* * *

Clayton sat down on the bed, the little energy he had remaining gone after the fight. He took a moment to process, as Matthew sat beside him with a sigh.

**“**It makes it worse, y’know? When y’all are bugging me about food, makes it harder to eat.” Clayton finally said, glancing at Matthew.

Guilt flashed over Matthew’s face. “I… I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry.”

Clayton gave him a tired smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m trying, okay? I know what I need, done this sort of thing before. It’ll just take time.”

Matthew hesitated for a moment. “You said that before. That you’d gone without food before. What did you mean by that?”

_Fuck, didn’t think he’d caught that. Ain’t a topic of conversation for today. _“Not everyone always has enough to eat, Matty. Shit, you were a soldier, you know that.”

Matthew nodded in understanding, but the look on his face made Clayton think that he wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

“Look, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. Can we just table this? Kinda done with all the feelings.” He tried to grin but it came off closer to a grimace.

“Yeah. C’mon, let’s get you home,” Matthew said softly, taking the bag from Clayton’s hand.

“Home, huh?” Clayton gave a crooked smile, which Matthew returned bashfully.

“For now, at least.” He gestured Clayton out the door, following close behind. “You look about ready to drop, could probably use a lie-down. If you want,” he hastened to add.

“I’m not fucking infirmed, you know,” Clayton grumbled, despite knowing that Matthew was most likely right. He was exhausted, more than he should be in his own opinion.

“I know,” Matthew said, brushing his fingertips against the back of Clayton’s hand before they entered the busy thoroughfare. “You’re still healing, though. Ain’t a sign of weakness.”

Clayton just hummed. _Sure, Matty. If you say so. _

* * *

Clayton nearly collapsed onto the sofa in Matthew’s small sitting room after making it through the door, eyes slipping closed in exhaustion as Matthew carried his bag into the next room. Soft footfalls padded towards him and he cracked open one eye to see Matthew smiling down at him softly.

“Should at least take your boots and coat off, Clay.” Clayton groaned and set about tugging his boots off and throwing them towards the door. Matthew laughed and tugged him to standing, quickly divesting him of his duster then hanging it up. “Did you want to take a nap? Might do you good.”

Clayton shook his head and sat back down. “Not really. ‘M tired, but I don’t really want to sleep.”

Matthew sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders were brushing. Something in Clayton’s chest warmed at the touch. “What do you want to do, then?”

Clayton rested his head against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “No idea. Should wash my clothes, change into clean pants and something that’s not yours.”

Matthew hummed. “You could. Could also just sit for a bit.” Clayton nodded, tilting his head to look at Matthew. Matthew smiled and leaned over to kiss him softly, a simple brush of lips that sent butterflies through Clayton’s stomach. _God, how is this even real? _

“Been waiting to do that all damn morning,” Matthew said when they parted. Clayton smiled and pulled him in for another kiss, deeper this time.

“Me too,” he murmured into Matthew’s mouth. They kissed for another long minute, lost in each other’s mouths and savouring the moment, before Matthew pulled back with a sigh.

“As much as I’d love to kiss you all damn day, I feel like it may not be the most conducive to you resting,” he said with a wink. Clayton flushed and nodded, but didn’t move to make any more space between them. “If you’re not going to nap, should we find some other way to pass the time?”

“I’ll follow your lead,” Clayton said with a small smile. “Ain’t used to spending much time whilin’ away the hours unless I’m drinking, and I think Miriam’d shoot me on the spot if she found out I was getting deep in my cups.”

Matthew laughed. “You’re not wrong. Well, we could play cards?”

Clayton grimaced and flexed the hand of his splinted arm. As he suspected, it hurt just as bad as it had with the homemade splint. “Think I’m gonna pass on anything requirin’ my hands right now. Know I gotta start sometime, but maybe later.”

Matthew nodded. “How about I read to you? Then you could rest but not nap, not if you don’t want to. I’ve got a copy of Moby Dick in my desk I could get out. Or Treasure Island, that’s always a good one.”

Clayton quirked an eyebrow in question. “What’s Treasure Island?”

Matthew gaped at him. “Well now we _have_ to read it.” He stood up and crossed over to the desk, rummaging around as he spoke. “It’s about pirates! And treasure! And adventure!” He paused and looked back at Clayton, just in time to catch a small smile play around the edges of his mouth. “You _have_ read Moby Dick, yes?” Clayton shook his head, and Matthew nodded seriously. “Well, now we’ve got something to read after this. That’s good, I’m sure we’ll have a lot of time in the next few weeks of sitting around. And I’m sure we could scrounge up some dime novels if you don’t like either book. Something tells me you’re not the sort of man to enjoy the Bible.”

“You’re not wrong,” Clayton agreed with a smile as Matthew came back to the sofa, book in hand. “Not much of a reader, to be honest.”

“That’s okay, not all of us are,” Matthew said, cracking open the book. “Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Chapter one – the old sea dog at the Admiral Benbow…”

* * *

His neck hurt, and his head felt muzzy and thick with sleep. Rolling his head, Clayton tried to find a more comfortable position, but his pillow had no give. A low hum sounded close by, echoing through the pillow oddly. Then he heard a page turn at the same time that his pillow moved, and he remembered where he was. He was in Matthew’s sitting room, slumped over sideways on the sofa, head pillowed on Matthew’s shoulder.

Clayton struggled to open his eyes and groaned at the headache that blossomed when he did so. He pushed himself back upright, every muscle in his body grumbling as he did so.

“Hey there sleepyhead,” Matthew said, turning to smile at him. “Sleep okay?”

Clayton muttered a garbled greeting back and scrubbed at his face to try and shake the cobwebs from his brain. _Fuck_, he felt worse than he had when Matthew first started reading to him. “Shit, how long was I asleep for?”

Matthew glanced at the clock. “Maybe an hour? Hour and a half? I’m not sure exactly when you fell asleep, to be honest.”

“Right, okay.” He didn’t know either. He could hardly remember the last thing Matthew had read, although he suspected they hadn’t made it far before he’d nodded off.

“You alright?” Matthew frowned. “You look sort of dazed.”

“Head’s just fuzzy,” he said, massaging the side of his neck briefly before the bruises reminded him why that was a bad idea.

“Hmmm.” Matthew looked dubious, and reached out a hand towards his forehead. “Can I?”

Clayton snorted and nodded. “Be my guest.” Matthew smiled and pressed the back of his hand against Clayton’s forehead. His hand was cool to the touch, and felt wonderful. _Shit, when did I get so warm?_

“Running a bit warm, Clay.” Matthew pulled back, frown now firmly in place. “Hope your fever’s not getting worse. We should get you some water, maybe some food if you’re up for it? Think I’ll have something edible in the kitchen.”

Clayton nodded and stood to head to the kitchen, his head spinning as soon as he stood up. “Fuck.” He held out a hand to steady himself and Matthew caught it, anchoring him until the world stopped moving. “Thanks.”

Matthew nodded and reached out to tuck Clayton’s hair behind his ear. “You sure you’re okay? Looked ready to pass out.”

“Yeah. Just feeling off, that’s all.” He walked to the kitchen, Matthew trailing close behind, and took a seat at the table. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“Hope so.” Matthew started rummaging around his larder, pulling out some hard cheese, jerky, pretzels, and dried fruit. “Don’t have a lot, but it’s something. We could venture back to the Gem, but something tells me you’re not quite up for that.”

Clayton grimaced. “Can if you want, but I’d rather stay in if it’s all the same to you.”

Matthew smiled and brought the food over with a knife and some plates. “Nah, this is fine. Miriam said she’ll stop by later and bring us some dinner, and tomorrow I’ll go pick up something more from the grocers.”

Clayton nodded and started filling his plate. He took small bits of everything, enough that it would appease Matthew and his own minimal hunger but not be overwhelming. Matthew didn’t comment on his food or the amount that he ate, just ate his own meal in silence. Clayton was suddenly glad for the fight this morning, even if it hadn’t been good at the time. It really _was_ easier to eat without feeling like he was being pushed, without the anxiety that came from knowing Miriam and Matthew were fussing over his eating. He still didn’t eat much, both too groggy to focus on the food and still feeling the lack of appetite that had accompanied him the last several days. It didn’t help that he kept returning to what Doc Ashby had said, and found himself keenly aware of how much eating hurt.

The food seemed to rouse him somewhat, despite his disinterest in eating, and he felt some energy and clarity reemerge when they finished the meal. Matthew put away the food and left the dishes in a pile on the counter, and Clayton turned his attention out the window. He lost focus, and startled when a hand suddenly stroked his hair, Matthew now standing beside him. The startle quickly faded, and he leaned into Matthew’s hand, greedy for the touch. _Fuck, he’s got wonderful hands._

“Did you want to nap some more, sweetheart?”

Clayton groaned and shook his head. “It just made me groggy, don’t know if sleeping more is a good idea.”

Matthew smiled down at him, leaning his hip against the table. “Could be a sign that you need more sleep, you know.”

Clayton huffed. “Doubt it.” He looked up with Matthew, mouth curling into a slow smile “You know, if you wanted me in your bed this afternoon, all you had to do was ask.”

Matthew’s gaze immediately flashed with heat. “That so?”

Clayton hummed deep in his chest. “Mhm. If that’s something you want.”

Matthew ran his hand down to Clayton’s cheek, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth. “Oh, you know it is.” He frowned. “You sure you’re feeling up for it? You’re not well.”

Clayton turned his head just enough to suck Matthew’s thumb into his mouth, and was rewarded with a shuddered exhale of breath. He laved Matthew’s thumb with his tongue, then released it with a pop, grinning up at Matthew, whose entire focus had moved to Clayton’s mouth. “I’m injured, I ain’t dying, Matthew.” He laughed. “Besides, what better way to pass the time?”

Matthew swooped down and kissed him deeply, tongue pressing eagerly into Clayton’s mouth. Clayton groaned and kissed back, tangling his hand in Matthew’s shirt. Their kisses continued to grow more and more heated until Matthew pulled back with a groan, tugging Clayton insistently to his feet.

“Fuck, been wanting you for _weeks._” He kissed Clayton again, walking him backwards towards the kitchen door. Clayton stumbled and almost fell, but Matthew caught him and turned him around. “Shit, no, go on, I’ll follow.”

Clayton laughed and headed for the bedroom. “Been wanting you forever too.” He glanced back at Matthew over his shoulder. “You have any idea how handsome you are?”

Matthew blushed but didn’t break eye contact. “Could say the same thing about you.”

Clayton laughed and walked close to the bed, turning around to pull Matthew into a kiss. Matthew moaned into his mouth and set his hands on Clayton’s hips. The weight and size of his hands sent a wave of want through Clayton, and he shivered in anticipation. He stepped back towards the bed, stopping when his thighs hit the mattress. Matthew followed after, chasing his mouth with a low groan.

“Wait, Matty,” Clayton gasped, and Matthew stopped immediately, pulling back so he could make eye contact. “Just.” Clayton smoothed his hand down Matthew’s side, tucking his fingers into his waistband and tugging lightly. “What do you want? I probably ain’t up for anything crazy.” He grinned weakly, nodding at his arm, still in the sling around his neck.

Matthew nodded seriously, hands still warm and heavy on Clayton’s hips, thumbs rubbing circles soothingly through the fabric of his shirt. “I know, sweetheart, and I don’t expect anything you ain’t able or ready to give.” He leaned in and kissed Clayton again, softer this time, then pulled back just enough to murmur into his mouth. “But if you’re okay with it, I’d really like to suck your cock.”

Clayton groaned and kissed back harder, tugging Matthew closer towards him. “Fuck, I’d love that, you sure?” he gasped when they separated.

Matthew grinned against his mouth. “Hell yes, I’m sure, been dying to get my mouth on you.” He tugged lightly on Clayton’s shirt. “Want to keep your shirt on? That way we don’t have to take off the sling or anything.” Clayton nodded with a sigh, and Matthew kissed the hint of a frown off his face. “As much as I’d love to see all of you, I don’t want to put you through anything we don’t have to.”

“Probably for the best,” Clayton conceded. “Thank you.”

Matthew smiled. “Nothing to thank me for, darlin'.” He kissed Clayton again, slow and deep, sweeping Clayton away. A hand cupped him through his trousers and Clayton keened into the kiss, trying not to thrust into Matthew’s hand. _Fuck_, even that felt so _good_.

Matthew broke the kiss and stoked a hand over Clayton’s cheek, eyes soft and dark. Then he knelt, looking up at Clayton from under his eyelashes. All of the air punched out of Clayton’s lungs at the sight of him kneeling, lips swollen and red from kissing, a small smile on his beautiful mouth. Then thick fingers were unbuttoning his trousers and sliding under the edge of his waistband.

“This okay?” Matthew asked, gaze still locked with Claytons.

“Yes,” Clayton breathed, feeling frozen in the very best of ways.

Matthew smiled and tugged his trousers and smalls down together, pooling them around his ankles. He hummed in satisfaction at the sight of Clayton’s hard cock, already dripping pre-come.

“Fucking gorgeous, Clay,” he breathed, leaning in to press a wet kiss to the tip of Clayton’s cock. Clayton gasped and tried to hold still, hand aching to bury itself in Matthew’s hair. Matthew pulled back and looked up at him, lips shiny and smeared with pre-come. He set his hands on Clayton’s hips and pushed backwards lightly. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

Clayton fairly collapsed onto the bed, knees buckling at the deep commanding rumble of Matthew’s voice. Matthew hummed in approval and leaned forward to lick a stipe up Clayton’s cock. “Fuck, you taste good.” Clayton whined at the sensation and Matthew grinned. “Bet you get real messy too, you’re dripping already.”

He smoothed his hands up and down Clayton’s thighs, then pulled Clayton closer to the edge of the bed, crowding in close between his spread knees and looking up once more. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything you don’t like, or you need me to stop?”

Clayton nodded, fingers twitching to touch. “You too, okay?” Matthew smiled and nodded back, then pressed another kiss to the tip of Clayton’s cock. He worked his way down, pressing sloppy kisses all the way down Clayton’s cock, the licking his way back up. Clayton keened, fingers clenching in the bedding, dick twitching under Matthew’s mouth.

Matthew wrapped one hand around the base of Clayton’s cock, then grabbed Clayton’s left hand with the other, untangling it from the bedding and moving it to the top of his head. “I like hands in my hair, Clay.” Clayton buried his fingers in Matthew’s soft hair, fingers trembling already. Matthew groaned in approval and returned his hand to Clayton’s hip. “Can pull if you want, I don’t mind,” he said with a grin, then swallowed Clayton’s cock down. 

Clayton nearly came then and there, as his cock was suddenly enveloped in wet heat, pleasure flooding through him. **“**Holy shit, Matthew,” he gasped, hand reflexively clenching and tugging on Matthew’s hair. Matthew moaned around him, sending vibrations through his cock and Clayton nearly sobbed aloud. Matthew sucked and pulled off slowly till just the tip was in his mouth, swirling his tongue around before diving back down.

He didn’t last long. How could he, when Matthew was so damn _good_ at this, when his mouth felt _divine_, when he had been wanting this with Matthew for _so long. _It wasn’t long before he was trembling, hips trying to grind forward into Matthew’s mouth, mouth hanging open as he gasped with each lick and suck and hum that Matthew gave.

“Matty,” he gasped, smoothing his hand through Matthew’s hair. “Matty, ‘m close.”

Matthew groaned around his cock and the hand on his hip squeezed, just lightly. Then the hand on his cock was moving, sliding down to cradle his balls at the same time that hot mouth took him down to the root and then Clayton was _gone,_ crying out his orgasm into the room. He curled inward on himself and spilled into Matthew’s mouth, brain whiting out as Matthew moaned even louder and swallowed around him.

He came back to a gentle hand on his face, as Matthew cupped his cheek. Clayton opened his eyes to see Matthew grinning up at him, cum splattered at the corner of his mouth, lips shiny and red. “How you doing, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough and raw, thumb stroking along Clayton’s cheekbone.

Clayton didn’t answer, just wrapped his hand around the back of Matthew’s neck and pulled him up into a messy kiss. He could _taste_ himself in Matthew’s mouth, and he moaned into Matthew’s mouth, licking in with fervor. Matthew groaned and shuffled closer, cradling Clayton’s head as the hand on his hip disappeared. The sound of moving cloth met his ears, then the slick sound of a hand moving against skin. Clayton broke the kiss and looked down to see that Matthew had pulled out his own cock, and was fisting it desperately as he tried to chase Clayton’s mouth. His mouth watered at the sight, and Clayton couldn’t stop the moan that escaped.

“Matty, c’mon, stand up,” he said breathlessly, tugging at Matthew’s shirt. “Want you to come in my mouth, _come on -"_

Matthew stood with no further prompting, still roughly jerking his cock. His cock was _beautiful,_ long and hard and dripping, and Clayton felt his own spent cock twitch at the sight. “_Fuck_, look at you,” he whispered, tugging on Matthew’s hip. Matthew stepped closer, close enough that his cock was just inches away from Clayton’s mouth, hand working desperately**. **Clayton wrapped his hand around Matthew’s, slowing down it’s movement, then slid his mouth down the length of Matthew’s cock. They both groaned, Matthew at the feel of his mouth, Clayton at the weight and taste of that gorgeous cock on his tongue. He sucked Matthew down, all the way down to their hands, then back up, running his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of Matthew’s cock. _Fuck_, Matthew was big, filling his mouth beautifully, and he wasn’t even taking all of him. Clayton moaned around his cock and Matthew cursed, hips jerking forward into their combined grip, then started babbling.

“Shit, Clay, your _mouth. _You feel so fucking good, look so hot on my cock -" Clayton moaned again, bobbing his head slowly as he started moving their hands, fingers twined together. Matthew’s other hand landed on his head, just stroking his hair with a heavy hand. He peered up at Matthew from under his eyelashes. Matthew looked dazed, face flushed and eyes dark, mouth hanging as he broke off his babbling with a long groan.

“Ain’t gonna last long, sweetheart,” Matthew gasped, hand now cupping the back of his head. Clayton tried to smile around his mouthful of cock, and moaned to show his enthusiasm for the idea. He twisted their hands, squeezing lightly around Matthew’s cock and sucked him in deeper, hollowing his cheeks then swallowing. Matthew came with a strangled shout, the hand in Clayton’s hair now trembling as he flooded Clayton’s mouth. Clayton tried to swallow it all, but it was too much, and come spilled out from his lips as Matthew withdrew. Before he could even wipe at it Matthew was _on_ him, kissing him desperately, licking the cum from his lips, hands still tangled together.

“Lord, but you’re perfect,” Matthew said when they finally resurfaced for air. Clayton blushed and kissed him again before he could ruin the moment by denying it.

“C'mere,” Matthew broke away to sprawl on the bed, tugging at Clayton until he followed him fully onto the bed. Clayton kicked his trousers the rest of the way off, then lay down on his back. Matthew immediately curled around him, resting his head on the pillow beside Clayton. Clayton turned his head to kiss him and Matthew snuggled in as close as he could without crushing Clayton’s injured shoulder, tangling their fingers together and resting their hands on Clayton’s belly below his splint.

“Who would’ve guessed that the good Reverend likes to talk dirty?” Clayton said drowsily, limbs languid and heavy with the pleasant lull that always overtook him after orgasm. He grinned at Matthew’s blush and kissed him again, eyelids slipping closed. “Should probably get some water or something,” he murmured into Matthew’s mouth.

“In a minute,” Matthew murmured back, breaking away to kiss his forehead. “It can wait.”

* * *

He fell asleep again, stretched out on top of the covers with Matthew curled up at his side. When he woke again the light had shifted, long shadows spilling throughout the room, and Matthew had vanished. He was covered with a soft afghan, and he smiled at Matthew’s thoughtfulness before pushing himself upright. His mouth tasted foul, and he felt the same fuzzy heaviness from before, and internally cursed himself for falling asleep again. _Fuck, wish Matthew had woken me up._ He looked on the floor for his trousers, but they were nowhere to be seen. On the nightstand, however, was a glass of water and a clean set of his own trousers and smalls. Looking around the room, he found his bag sitting by Matthew’s dresser now, flap open. He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and grabbed his clothing.

He managed to get dressed with one hand with only a minimal amount of cursing, and after draining the glass of water and rinsing the stale taste from his mouth he went in search of his missing partner. He eventually found Matthew on the back porch, scrubbing at clothing in a washtub. Clayton watched him for a minute through the screen door, admiring the shift of his shoulders as he worked. _Jesus he’s handsome. What the hell does he see in a man like me?_ He peered closer out the door and saw what appeared to be his own trousers hanging on the small line off the back of the house. _He’s even washing my clothes for me. _

“Didn’t have to do that,” Clayton said, stepping out onto the porch. Matthew startled and almost upended the washtub, and Clayton broke out in laughter. Matthew turned and grinned at him sheepishly before returning to his scrubbing.

“I don’t mind, got my own things to do anyway,” he said as Clayton sat on the porch beside him. “Not sure how you think you’d do your own washing anyhow, with that arm.”

Clayton scowled half-heartedly. “I’d find a way,” he grumbled, nudging Matthew with his elbow to let him know he wasn’t truly upset.

Matthew grinned and started wringing out the trousers he had been washing, then stood up to hang them on the small line off his house. “I don’t doubt it, if there’s any man stubborn enough to manage washing his clothes with a broken arm it’s you.” Clayton flipped him the bird and Matthew laughed.

They sat in companionable silence as Matthew finished up. Clayton closed his eyes and basked in the sun, now cooler than it had been in the heat of the day. Finally Matthew stood up with a groan, stretching before lifting the washtub and tossing the water into the dirt.

“C’mon, Miriam should be here with our supper soon.”

“Right,” Clayton said with a yawn, accepting the hand to his feet. “Forgot that she was comin’ by.” He grimaced, remembering the last time he had seen her that day. “Shit, hope she’s not to pissed at me.”

“Oh, she’s probably spitting mad,” Matthew said, leading the way back into the kitchen, then into the sitting room. He laughed at Clayton’s grimace. “She’ll forgive you though, and she’s had time to cool down. You’re just lucky I wouldn’t let her up when I found you.”

Clayton smiled half-heartedly, guilt at the whole situation earlier creeping in. “Thanks. Probably would’ve made things worse if she’d been there.”

Matthew nodded and sat down. “Probably. Don’t worry too much though, she won’t stay angry at you for too long.” Clayton sat beside him with a sigh, and Matthew turned to face him, leaning in for a slow, lingering kiss.

“It’ll be okay, alright?” Matthew murmured when he drew back. “She’ll understand.”

“Okay,” Clayton breathed, then leaned back in to meet his lips once more. 

* * *

After some time of trading soft kisses, they settled back in to read Treasure Island again. Clayton was pleased that he managed to stay awake this time, and found that he quite enjoyed listening to Matthew’s voice as he read. _Don’t think I’ve had someone read to me since I was a child. Who would’ve thought that I’d find someone in Deadwood?_ Just as Billy Bones tries to kill Black Dog, a knock sounded at the door of the parsonage.

“Just a moment!” Matthew called, marking his spot in the page then standing and walking to the door. Clayton’s heart started racing as anxiety swept back in. _Shit, she’s here._ Matthew glanced back to Clayton for confirmation as he reached the door. He smiled reassuringly and Clayton forced himself to breathe, then nodded to show he was ready.

“Evenin’, Miss Miriam,” Matthew said as he opened the door. “Come on in, here let me take your things.”

“Thank you, Reverend,” Miriam said with a smile. She handed Matthew a brown paper bag, followed by a smaller package in brown paper, both of which he set on the nearby desk. “Evenin’, Clayton. How are you feelin’ tonight?”

He tried to smile, heart still pounding in his chest. “Evenin’, Miss Miriam. Feelin’ just fine.”

“Oh, wonderful,” she said, smile dropping from her face as she crossed the room to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. “Not that I believe you, mind, but glad you’re feelin’ fine so I can give you a talking to. What on _earth_ was going through your mind earlier, runnin’ off like that?”

Clayton grimaced and averted his gaze. “Just needed to get away, that’s all.” He gestured weakly. “Look, I’m sorry I scared you, I didn’t think it through. Y’all can’t be there for me all the time though, I’m going to need to be on my own eventually.” He tried to grin. “Look, Matthew already gave me a dressing down, can you just leave it? Promise I’ll try not to scare you like that again.”

“Damn_ right_ you won’t –“

“Miriam,” Matthew interrupted. “Clayton’s going to allow me to accompany him when he goes out for the time being, until his injuries are less severe. But he’s right, we can’t be with him all the time. Ain’t healthy for any man.”

“Fine,” she conceded, face crumbling before regaining her composure. “I was just so _worried_, Clay, thought for a moment you’d been taken again.”

“Hey,” Clayton stood and stepped closer, tentatively pulling her into a loose hug, broken arm held out of the way. She wrapped her arms around him and clung tight, face buried in his chest. He sent a panicked look at Matthew, who just gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m okay, nothing bad happened.” She nodded and squeezed him tight. Clayton’s ribs screamed, but he just let her hold on. _‘S my fault she’s upset anyway. _

“Not so tight, Miriam, his ribs are hurt,” Matthew said gently, stepping forward to lay a hand on Miriam’s shoulder. She immediately let go, stepping back to look at his face, worry flashing again at whatever she saw there.

“Why didn’t you say anything, honey?” she said, grabbing his hand instead. “You gotta tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“It’s fine,” Clayton said, smiling through the pain. “I don’t mind.”

Miriam and Matthew both frowned. “It’s not fine if someone’s hurting you, Clayton,” she said, tone serious. “We love you, honey, we don’t want to hurt you.”

He stared at her, taken aback. _They love me?_ “I… okay.” _I can’t remember the last time someone said they loved me. It must’ve been back before… no._ He forced his mind away from the past and into the present, to where Miriam’s face was softening in understanding.

“Clayton… you do know that we love you, don’t you?” she asked gently.

Clayton cleared his throat and looked away. “I didn’t, no.”

She squeezed his hand. “Oh honey, of _course_ we love you. Never doubt that, okay?”

He nodded, voice too tight to speak. Miriam held on until he squeezed her hand back and then let go, taking a step backwards to give himself space. “Thanks for bringin’ dinner, Miss Miriam,” he said, trying to change the subject.

Miriam quickly followed suit, clearly sensing his discomfort with the topic at hand. “Of course, sugar. Brought you some stew and soft rolls.” She bustled over to the desk and held up the smaller package. “I also brought herbs. Peppermint leaves and willow bark for tea – both are good for fevers and infections. Willow bark is good for pain too, honey. There’s also some lavender, it can help with nightmares and sleep, just put it under your pillow. I’ll try and rustle up some ginger root tomorrow to help settle your stomach.”

“Thank you, Miriam, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Matthew said, taking the package from her hand. “I can ask at the grocers for ginger too, I’ll need to stop by for some supplies tomorrow.”

Miriam nodded and headed for the door. “Well let me know if you can’t find any and I’ll see what I can do.” She turned to look at both of them, smiling brightly once more. “I’ll see both of you at the Gem for breakfast? You’ll need to bring the tinware back there anyway, Johnny was quite insistent on it.”

Clayton nodded, and Matthew smiled. “Surely will. Thank you again, Miriam, it’s mighty kind of you to stop by.”

“No trouble at all, honey! Have a lovely evening, Reverend, Clayton.”

And then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. Matthew picked up both packages and led the way into the kitchen, quickly dishing up two bowls while Clayton sat down at the table.

“Smells wonderful,” Matthew said, bringing their meal over to the table. “Lord, I am happy to have a dinner that wasn’t cooked over a fire.” He looked at Clayton, who was poking at the meal with his spoon. “Mind if I pray?”

Clayton gestured for him to go ahead. He waited politely while Matthew prayed, not bowing his head but not eating either. He’d made it clear where he stood on religion and Matthew still saw fit to sleep with him, so he hoped that it wouldn’t be an issue.

Dinner was quiet, both of them focused on their meals. As they ate, Clayton’s mind wandered to a place he had tried so hard to avoid the previous evening. Now, their intimacy and the conversation with Miriam so fresh in his mind, the question he had was unavoidable. 

“Matthew.” Matthew hummed, and Clayton forced himself to speak, heart pounding in nervous anticipation. **“**I gotta ask… last night, you said you’ve been wanting me in your bed. Is that all you want from me?” The vulnerability in his voice was clear, and he’d never hated it more.

Matthew looked at him closely, his voice slow as he responded. “No, it isn’t.” Relief flooded through Clayton, dizzying in it’s strength. “If all you want is a bedfellow… then I understand, and won’t press you. Honestly, I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. But no, that’s not all that I want from you.” He reached across the table to grip Clayton’s hand. “I want a relationship with you, darlin’. Thought I had made that clear.”

Clayton raised Matthew’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. “I want one, too. I ain’t interested in only having someone to warm my bed.”

Matthew leaned over the table and claimed his lips properly in a swift kiss, before sitting back down again. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page, then. And the rest, well.” He flashed a brilliant grin, and Clayton’s heart swooped. “We’ll just see where it takes us.”

* * *

The rest of the evening passed quickly. After dinner Matthew washed up their dishes while Clayton kept him company in the kitchen, feeling particularly useless when Matthew shooed him back to his seat, proclaiming that he could help when he actually had two functional arms to use. By that time night was falling outside, and Matthew brought their clothing in from the line, hanging it around his kitchen to finish drying.

“Just don’t want it to wander off in the night,” he said with a grin when Clayton raised an eyebrow in question. Clayton laughed and helped best he could with one hand, holding clothing out to Matthew as he found increasingly creative places to drape it and trying not to grimace at the pain from simply moving. He was limping worse than this morning, now, and once again found it hard to focus with the throbbing pain that rang throughout his body.

“There.” Matthew said when they were done, looking around the kitchen with satisfaction. Clothing was littered across nearly every surface. He looked over to Clayton, and moved towards the stove. “Do you want to try some of that tea Miriam brought? Willow bark might be good if you’re hurtin’.”

“I’m fine,” Clayton said automatically, sighing when Matthew raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Alright, I’ll try it if you think I should. I’m not much for tea, but who knows.”

“Well,” Matthew said slowly, “I _do_ think it will help you feel better than you do now. I’ve some experience with willow bark tea, they gave it out whenever they could during the war. Easier to come by than proper medicine.” He laughed, then refocused on lighting the stove. “I don’t think it’s up to me to say if you _should_ try it, but I do think it will help, yes.”

“Sure, then, let’s give it a try.” Clayton smiled. “At least then I can tell Miriam I tried it.”

Matthew laughed. “She’ll be mighty pleased. That woman has a mothering streak a mile wide, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one to tell her you refused any form of medicine.”

Clayton snorted. “I wouldn’t want to either.”

Matthew gestured Clayton towards the sitting room. “Go sit, I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”

* * *

Clayton was nearly asleep when Matthew joined him on the sofa, rousing himself enough to accept the tin mug from Matthew with a yawn.

“Should probably change your bandages after this then head to bed, huh?” Matthew said, leaning close to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Guess so,” Clayton said groggily. “I dunno what the fuck’s wrong with me, I can’t seem to stay awake today.”

“You’re healing, Clay, think some tiredness is normal,” Matthew said with a smile. “This is the first day we’ve had a chance to breathe since all that shit went down, it’s understandable that you need the rest.”

“Still fucking annoying,” Clayton grumbled, taking a sip of the tea. It was hot and sweet, with an earthy flavour. “It’s not bad,” he conceded to Matthew.

Matthew smiled. “Good. I added some honey, thought that might help. If I remember correctly it can be a bit bitter.”

“Nah, ‘s good,” Clayton said, yawning into his cup. 

“You want to drink it while I clean your wrists? Kill two birds with one stone?”

Clayton hummed and took another sip before nodding. “May as well. Should probably change, too, that way we can just get all the unpleasantness out of the way at once.”

“Well, let’s do your wrists first, then we can see about that.” Matthew led the way into the kitchen, clearing off both seats and the table of clothing.

“All your hard work!” Clayton teased, sitting at the table and removing the sling from around his neck. He groaned in relief and rolled his neck and shoulders, not even realizing how much weight the splint had been putting on his neck until that moment. “Fuck, I’ll be glad when this is done,” he muttered.

“I know. I’ll be praying that you heal quickly,” Matthew said, bringing over the bandages and iodine that Doc Ashby had given him. “If you’re alright with that?”

Clayton shrugged. “Up to you what you pray about, not my business.” Matthew shot him an exasperated look. “Look, if you wanna pray about me, be my guest so long as you’re not praying for my soul or none of that shit.”

“I wouldn’t do that unless you wanted me to, Clay.” Matthew looked bemused. “Here, give me your arm.”

Matthew re-bandaged his wrists and temple quickly and efficiently, with that immense gentleness that Clayton was beginning to suspect was just part of who Matthew was. He was suddenly very glad that Matthew had been willing to take over his medical care so he didn’t have to return to the doctor daily or try and struggle through it on his own. 

“Thank you,” he said softly after Matthew helped him out of his shirt and started on his shoulder. “There’s not a lot of people who would do this for me, and I appreciate it.” A lump was gathering in his throat, and he swallowed to try and force down the whelming emotions. “More than you know.”

Matthew smiled back, just as soft. “Glad to be able to, Clay.”

The rest didn’t take long, and soon he was re-tying Clayton’s splint and taking his empty mug then helping him to his feet. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you to bed. We can put this back on after you’ve changed.”

Clayton nodded and followed him to the bedroom. Standing beside the bed, he stripped out of Matthew’s undershirt, carefully maneuvering over his splint, then started on his trousers. Matthew waited patiently, holding his nightshirt at the ready.

“Mind if I take a look at the bruising on your back before you get dressed again?” Clayton shook his head and turned so Matthew could see. Calloused hands pressed lightly against his back, then his hips, before Matthew turned him around gently and did the same to his ribs. “Good Lord, they look even worse than they did yesterday,” he muttered.

Clayton smiled, then accepted help maneuvering the nightshirt over his splint. “Think that’s normal,” he said, tugging it into place. “At least has been every other time I bruise.”

“Still,” Matthew muttered. He moved around Clayton to the bed, and pulled back the covers. “Do you want to sleep on the outside tonight? That way I’m not nearest to your broken arm, could be safer.”

Clayton nodded and sat down, looking at Matthew in question. “You gonna come to bed now? ‘S fine if you’re not ready.”

“Let me just put out the lights in the kitchen, then I’ll be in,” Matthew said, bending down to kiss him lightly on the lips. Clayton wrapped a hand around the back of his head, keeping him there for a long minute.

“Sorry,” he murmured when he finally drew back, already breathless. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Don’t apologize,” Matthew murmured back, kissing him again. “Feel like I could kiss you for days.”

Clayton smiled and let him go. “Feel the same way, Matty.” He shooed at Matthew, then lay down, tucking his feet under the covers. “Go turn out them lights, Reverend.”

Matthew laughed and left the room, and Clayton tried to settle into a comfortable position with his new splint. By the time he was settled Matthew was re-entering the room and stripping out of his clothing. Clayton watched contentedly, admiring the play of lamplight on his skin. He tried to keep his eyes open and wait for Matthew, but it was a losing battle. He roused when Matthew slipped into bed beside him, pulling the covers up over both of them.

“Night, sweetheart,” Matthew said, finding his lips for one last kiss.

“Night,” Clayton mumbled. The last thing he felt before he drifted off to sleep was Matthew curling around him, keeping him safe and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clayton: “Home, huh?”
> 
> Matty: “For now, at least.” _And maybe forever._
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! As always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated. Stay safe out there y’all, wishing you all well in quarantine <3


	8. Home (The Second Day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks! Once again, many apologies for taking a bajillion years to update, despite saying it would be up soon. My bad! But here, another stupid long chapter to make up for it! I'm not totally happy with this chapter, but just kinda wanted to be done with it lol, so here it is. Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter, y’all are the absolute best <3
> 
> [sleeplittlechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplittlechild/pseuds/sleeplittlechild) drew me some lovely fanart for the last chapter!! It can be found [here](https://conformityvictim.tumblr.com/post/613516440527650816/clayton-eventually-found-matthew-on-the-back), go take a look! Thank you sleeplittlechild, I love it so much!!
> 
> The same trigger warnings for the last several chapters apply – anxiety, panic attacks, trauma, etc. There is another smut scene in this – if you want to skip it, scroll down to the first page break. 
> 
> We are almost at the end of this fic!! There will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this. Thanks for stickin’ with me! As well – I can now be found on the tumblr! Come yell at me [here](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you want?

Clayton woke up pleasantly warm and surprisingly comfortable, with Matthew curled up behind him. Sometime in the night he’d rolled onto his side, broken arm resting on the mattress, one of Matthew’s arms tossed over his waist. Matthew was tucked up close, a warm line of heat against his back, breath dusting his neck. He smiled, something that felt an awful lot like happiness curling in his chest. It felt so easy to forget how bad things had been when he was curled up beside Matthew, safe and warm. He knew the feeling wouldn’t last forever, but even just a few moments of calm, of peace, made everything feel more bearable.

He shifted, burrowing further into the warmth. Matthew’s arm curled tighter around his waist as he shoved his face into Clayton’s hair, muttering something indistinguishable. Clayton hummed back, too relaxed to move.

A few moments later Matthew shifted again, then yawned. “Mornin’,” he whispered against Clayton’s neck.

Clayton smiled. “Mornin’,” he whispered back.

“Mmm, wasn’t sure you were awake,” Matthew muttered. He pressed a kiss to the back of Clayton’s neck, hand smoothing across his stomach. “Fuck, you smell good.”

Clayton laughed and caught his hand. “Ain’t sure that’s true, but thank you nonetheless.”

“No, it’s true,” Matthew insisted sleepily. “You smell real good.” His hand spread across Clayton’s stomach again, pressing him closer, and Clayton couldn’t help the moan that slipped out. _God, his hands are so good._

Matthew hummed delightedly and kissed his neck again. “You sound good, too.”

“Ain’t you a sweet-talker,” Clayton said, turning his head to look over his shoulder. “You gonna kiss me good mornin’ proper-like?”

Matthew laughed. “If you insist.”

Matthew propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over to kiss him, sliding the hand on his stomach up and onto his hip. Clayton groaned and shifted back against him, twisting to meet him. His mouth was stale after a night spent sleeping, but it did nothing to detract from the kiss, or from the warmth growing in Clayton’s chest and gut.

“Mornin’,” Matthew whispered against his lips. He kissed Clayton again, deeper this time, tongues sliding together. Clayton moaned into the kiss and the hand on his hip tightened then slid back across his belly, pressing him further back into Matthew. Clayton felt his dick respond, starting to harden under his nightshirt.

He broke from the kiss, panting against Matthew’s mouth. “Gotta stop kissin’ me like that, or we’re never gonna get out of bed.”

Matthew smiled against his lips. “I’d be alright with that if you are.”

Clayton’s heart sped up. _How is this real? _“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I’m more than alright with that.”

The arm around him tightened, then Matthew licked back into his mouth with a moan. He ground against Clayton, his dick a hard line against his hip. Clayton moaned back, shuddering against the mattress.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” Matthew murmured into his mouth, hand reaching down to lightly palm Clayton’s erection through the nightshirt. Clayton shuddered at the contact and pressed further into his hand. “Will you let me take care of you?”

“Yes,” Clayton breathed out, twisting and reaching for Matthew with his good hand. He grimaced at a twinge in his injured shoulder, and quickly tried to wipe the expression from his face. Matthew must have seen it, because he frowned and turned Clayton back around, twining their hands together before pinning Clayton’s arm lightly against his stomach.

“Hey now, don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He leaned over and kissed away the protest before Clayton could voice it, humming in approval as Clayton settled. “C’mon, got an idea.”

Matthew sat up and shifted, putting his back to the headboard and spreading his legs. He patted the space between his legs invitingly, raising an eyebrow.

Clayton laughed and sat up. “Alright.”

Before he could shuffle awkwardly into place Matthew had hooked both arms around his waist and was pulling him backwards and over, shifting his legs until he had Clayton settled neatly between them, his back pressed against Matthew’s chest. He pulled Clayton further against him, easily re-arranging him so that Matthew was taking most of his weight and their cheeks were pressed together. He settled Clayton’s broken arm against his chest, then wrapped his arm around Clayton’s waist underneath it. Clayton rested his left arm on top of Matthew’s and twined their hands back together, then smiled as Matthew pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Sit tight, I’ve got you. I’ll take such good care of you.” His voice was a deep rumble against Clayton’s back, and Clayton couldn’t help but squirm in his grasp. Matthew’s other hand returned to his cock and resumed its movements, palming his erection assuredly through the layers of cloth. Clayton whined and tried to thrust against it, but the hand holding him still wound tighter around his waist, pinning him back against Mason. He cursed, and Mason chuckled against his shoulder. “Hold on sweetheart, we’ll get there. Patience is a virtue."

His hand rucked the nightgown up around Clayton’s waist, knuckles dusting his torso, grazing the hair below his navel before fingering the edge of his smalls between his fingers. Clayton froze in anticipation, hiding his face in Mason’s neck with a wet gasp. Mason turned and found his mouth again, tongues sliding together in a filthy kiss.

“This ok?” He murmured against Clayton’s mouth, fingers grazing the skin just under his waistband. Clayton nodded dumbly, panting into his mouth. Mason grinned and ducked his head again to press a kiss against Clayton’s jaw, sliding his hand into Clayton’s smalls and wrapping thick fingers around his aching cock. Clayton let out a strangled shout as Matthew stroked him firmly, only to whine as he withdrew all too soon, hands moving to tug at his smalls.

“Lift up for me, darling." Clayton complied best he could, raising his hips so Mason could work his smalls down around his thighs. 

“Fuck, Clay, look at you,” Matthew breathed against his shoulder as his cock sprang free from the fabric. He ran one finger lightly down the length of Clayton’s cock. “So gorgeous.”

Clayton squirmed at the word, a flush growing up his neck and staining his cheeks. “I ain’t nothing special,” he protested, but Matthew shook his head and pressed a kiss to his skin.

“You are. You have no idea how handsome you are, how good you look with my hand on your cock.” He took Clayton's cock in hand, thick fingers wrapped firmly around him. Clayton's hips jerked and he tossed his head back against Matthew's shoulder with a whimper. “See? _Gorgeous_.”

“Ain’t – _fuck_, Matthew –“

Matthew took his hand away, only to spit in it and wrap his hand back around Clayton’s length**. **He jerked Clayton off slowly, his hand slick around Clayton’s cock. His thumb swept over the head of Clayton’s cock, smearing pre-come everywhere as Clayton’s hips jerked forward in his hold. 

“You’re stunning, Clay, and if I have to tell you a thousand times to get it through your head I will.”

Clayton whined and tucked his face into the side of Matthew’s neck. His cock throbbed with every compliment Matthew gave him, something growing in his chest with every word. His cheeks burned, and he felt like hiding. _Look at you, gettin’ hot over a boy tellin’ you how good you look. _“Fuck, don’t –“

Matthew interrupted him, giving his cock a squeeze. “Don’t what, Clay? Don’t say how good you look, how lovely you are? How good you are for me?” Clayton arched his back, hand scrabbling for the bedcovers as pleasure spiked up his spine. Matthew made an appreciative moan and kissed his shoulder. “You like that, huh sweetheart? Like hearin’ how good you are, how beautiful you are?”

Clayton sobbed and reached for Matthew again, only to have his hand pinned once more to his stomach. Matthew twined their hands together and Clayton clutched to him like a lifeline**.** He could feel Matthew’s cock against his back, thick and hard, and it did nothing to slow the heavy heat rolling through his body.

“Matthew, _please_,” he gasped. Matthew turned his head and licked into Clayton’s open mouth in response, humming in pleasure at Clayton’s moan. His hand kept working Clayton’s cock, which was now dripping with pre-come.

“You’re close, aren’t you.” Matthew whispered. “You’re almost dripping again.”

Clayton rolled his head back on Matthew’s shoulder, tucking his face into Matthew’s neck and panting against his skin.

“Yeah,” he panted, “yeah, ‘m close, fuck that feels so good.”

Matthew was right. He could feel the tell-tale flood of warmth and pleasure building up in his gut, and his cock, the way he felt so _close _to the tipping point, the way he could hardly think straight, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. _How the fuck does he know how to play me so well already? _

“Mmm, good. I love seeing you like this, you’re being so _good._” Matthew pressed their hands into Clayton’s stomach, anchoring them closer together as Clayton writhed and keened at his words. His fingers tightened around Clayton, stroking firmly upwards and pressing his thumb just under the head of Clayton’s cock. “Come on then, handsome, wanna see you come.”

That was it. With Matthew’s voice rumbling in his ear Clayton came with a choked-off cry, spilling into Matthew’s hand and arching against him, whole body shaking with the intensity of it all. Everything faded into bliss, the feel of Matthew around him and his voice in his ear the only thing keeping him present.

“That’s it,” Matthew murmured, holding him close and working him through the orgasm. “You’re so good for me, Clay, coming for me like that.” He turned his head and pressed a sloppy kiss to the side of Clayton’s mouth, humming in pleasure when Clayton shifted enough to kiss him properly. Finally Clayton shuddered and pulled away as the pleasure shifted into oversensitivity. His hand touched Matthew’s, stilling his movements.

“That’s enough,” he panted. “Fuck, that was good.”

Matthew grinned against his cheek as he pulled his hand away and wiped it on Clayton’s nightshirt. “Good. I like makin’ you feel good.”

Clayton laughed breathlessly. “Well, that makes two of us.” He ground backwards, pushing himself into Matthew’s cock_. _“C’mon, it’s your turn,” Clayton murmured, moving to turn around. Matthew caught him before he could move too far and pulled him back into his arms.

“I got it,” he said softly. “Here, just shift over a bit.”

Clayton frowned. “You ain’t gonna let me help?”

Matthew pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “I will if you can tell me, without a word of a lie, that moving your hand on my cock wouldn’t hurt your shoulder.”

Clayton flushed and ducked his gaze. Matthew leaned closer and kissed him softly.

“That’s not a complaint, sweetheart. Hell, I could come just from lookin’ at you. I’d love your hand on me someday, when it ain’t gonna hurt you. Okay?”

“Alright.” Clayton kissed him back, deeper, slower. “Thank you.”

Matthew smiled against his lips. “No need to thank me. Here.”

Matthew shifted Clayton sideways until he could reach into his own smalls, then started fisting his cock. Clayton moaned at the sound of it, the feel of Matthew moving against him. He nestled into Matthew’s side and kissed the side of his mouth. 

“God, wish I could suck you off right now,” Clayton muttered against his skin. “You fill my mouth so goddamn good.”

Matthew keened and worked himself faster. “Fuck, you have no idea how hot that is. How hot you are, goddamn.” He kissed Clayton desperately, moaning into his mouth. “I’m gonna come.”

“Come on then,” Clayton whispered. “Wanna hear you.”

Matthew came with a cry, mouth falling open against Clayton’s, hips jerking forwards into his hand. Clayton moaned appreciatively and kissed him through it, mouths moving together until Matthew broke away to press his forehead against Clayton’s shoulder. He went limp, arm falling slack around Clayton’s waist, still shuddering his way through the after-shocks.

“That,” Matthew panted against his shoulder. “That was the best wake-up I’ve had in a long time.”

Clayton laughed against his neck. “Same here.” He settled in closer with a sigh. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Matthew hugged him tight, then shifted them both back against the headboard. “You are too, darlin’.” He wiped his hand on Clayton’s nightshirt, now messy with both of their come. “Sorry about the mess, darlin’. I’ll wash your nightshirt later.”

Clayton smiled and let his eyes fall closed, relaxing into Matthew’s arms. _Ain’t we a sappy pair. _“That’s fine, Matty. Totally worth the mess.”

After a few minutes snuggled blissfully together Matthew nuzzled his hair. “Should probably move, darlin’. Clean ourselves up, at least.

Clayton sighed and sat up, shaking the lethargy from his limbs. “Yeah. The others’ll be waitin’ before too long, anyhow.” He turned around and wrapped his hand around Matthew’s wrist. “Thank you for bein’ alright with me… not bein’ up for some things,” he said softly. “It’s appreciated.”

Matthew slid a hand into his hair and pulled him in for a soft kiss. His lips were chapped and warm, and Clayton couldn’t help but lean into him, eyes slipping closed. When Matthew pulled away he tried to follow, to chase the kiss and keep it going as long as he could. Matthew smiled against his lips and kissed him again then pulled back, hand in Clayton’s hair keeping him from following. His eyes cracked open to see Matthew smiling fondly at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. He smiled back, lips curling into a slow grin, heart so full he couldn’t help it. Matthew tucked a strand of hair behind his ears, then pressed another quick kiss to his lips.

“Of course, darlin’. C’mon. Let’s clean up and change your bandages, then go for breakfast.”

* * *

Dressing in his own clothes, and clean ones at that, left Clayton feeling more like himself than he had in days. _It’s a wonder what a pair of your own duds will do for you, _he thought they walked through the streets of Deadwood. _Finally feel like a functional human again._

Despite the feeling of groundedness, he still found himself drifting into Matthew’s shadow as they walked and pulling his hat down over his eyes, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. He shoved down the thought that whispered that he just wanted to be closer to Matthew, as close as he could be. The yearning for closeness, for touch, for Matthew’s eyes and hands on him was still there, just as strong as the day before. Their intimacy hadn’t lessened it at all; in fact, it had made everything even stronger.

Clayton forced himself away from the feelings building in his chest, and back on their slow travel down the thoroughfare. _This ain’t the time, Sharpe. Not when you still stick out like a sore thumb. _He was less dressed down than he had been the previous day, less ragged and more put-together, but he still couldn’t help but feel out of place and exposed. The sling didn’t help, nor did the extremely visible black eye and broken nose, or the freshly changed bandages poking out from under his hat and shirt-sleeves.

_Still look like a bit of a disaster, I reckon. Gonna have to get used to it, ain’t like it’ll be changing anytime soon. _

Much like the previous morning, Aly was already at the Gem when they arrived, nursing a cup of coffee and looking tired. Miriam arrived shortly after they’d settled, and Arabella whisked in just before their food arrived.

Breakfast was pleasant, lacking the tension that had lingered since this whole affair began. Clayton found it easier to participate in the conversation and to stay present than it had been in days, the fog that was present so often seeming to have lifted that morning. It was a relief, albeit a minor one, but any progress felt like a victory. Their conversation centered around benign topics, plans for the day, hopes that the nice weather would hold, and gossip about the good people of Deadwood. There was a distinct avoidance of any plans relating to jobs or work, and Clayton didn’t try and change that. He knew he’d be useless for the foreseeable future until his arm or at least his shoulder healed, and until the damnable exhaustion faded. It seemed like the best course of action would be to lay low, and the others knew it too. If Swearengen called them in for a job while he was still healing they’d have to do it without him, or he could try and convince them to let him go along and hope he could hold his own. Neither possibility thrilled him, but he knew he’d have no say in the matter when it happened. They had… not a duty, not exactly, but he knew all four of them felt the same obligation to keep Deadwood as safe as they could from the weird shit that had a tendency to go on. They were more qualified than most, especially with the Dealer’s power still coursing through their veins.

Clayton had finished his food long before the others, leaving plenty on his plate. He hadn’t bothered amending the order Aly gave for all of them, not wanting to get into another argument over his appetite, despite knowing that he wouldn’t be eating everything on his plate. _I hate wasting food, but it’s better than having Miriam get upset again. _He ignored the looks Miriam gave him, both the pleased one when his full plate arrived, and the way her eyebrows pinched when he pushed back his plate. He focused his gaze across the room, resolutely avoiding eye contact with her, just in time to catch Johnny glancing nervously at their table. Dan nudged Johnny with his elbow and nodded his head at them, and Johnny headed over, wringing his hands.

_Perfect timin’, Johnny. Guess we’ll find out how workin’ without me goes sooner than I’d thought. _

“When y’all are done, Mister Swearengen would like a word?”

Miriam smiled up at Johnny and patted his arm. “Why, thank you Johnny, why don’t you tell him we’ll be up shortly?”

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

She waited until Johnny was clattering up the stairs, then turned to the rest of the group. “I’m not sure we should take any jobs right now, with the extent of Clayton’s injuries.”

Clayton raised an eyebrow. “Y’all can just do the job without me. You’re all mighty capable, and I’ll be fine on my own.”

Matthew frowned. “Not sure I’d feel comfortable with all of us gone, Clayton.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Miriam said. “It seems wise to keep at least one other person in town while you’re healing, at least until you can draw without pain.”

Clayton sighed. “You aren’t gonna budge on this one, are you.”

“He’s learning,” Aly said with a grin.

Clayton flicked him the finger. “I’d like to see how you fare with a bunch of nurse-maids, Aloysius.”

Aly laughed. “Point taken. Well, how about this –“ he waved his hand at himself, Miriam, and Arabella. “The three of us will take the job, if it’s something that doesn’t need all of us. Matthew, you can stay with Clayton, to ease yours and Miss Miriam’s worries.”

Matthew glanced at Clayton. “I’m agreeable, if Clayton’s alright with that.”

_A day alone with you? I won’t say no to that. _He nodded. “’S fine with me.”

“It’s settled, then.” Miriam sounded far too pleased. She drained the last of her coffee, then pushed back her chair. “Shall we?”

* * *

They tromped up the stairs to Swearengen’s office, spreading throughout the office when he called them in. Clayton fit himself into a chair in the corner, but somehow still ended up with all of Swearengen’s focus on him. _Fucking figures. _

“Well, don’t you look like shit,” Swearengen said, staring at him. “Heard you got into some trouble. Hope it won’t be following you back to town, I’d be mighty fucking unpleased with that.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Clayton said, staring right back. “It’s done.”

“Good. Glad to fucking hear it.” He switched his attention back to the rest of the group. “As I’m sure you’ve all fucking figured out by now, I’ve got another job for you, should you be willing to take it. For those of you who aren’t beat to shit, that is.”

The others looked at each other, Aly finally speaking up. “What’s the job?”

“Nothing too big. I need as many of you as can go to accompany a few of my men on a ride out of town this morning. They’ve got a fucking package to deliver. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“And you need us?” Arabella asked, eyebrow raised. “Couldn’t ask your other ah – usual hired men?”

“They’re all fucking busy,” Swearengen said, “and if guns get drawn I want someone who can fucking handle themselves instead of some asshole I pulled from the goddamn streets. And I’ll pay you, of course, say – fifty dollars in gold for whoever’s willing to go.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s obvious that Mister Sharpe will not be joining us,” Miriam said, gesturing at Clayton. “At least until he can use both hands.”

“And I do apologize, but I’ve got a previous commitment to uphold,” Matthew smoothly interjected.

_So that’s how we’re playing it, huh?_ Clayton thought. _Glad y’all aren’t tellin’ Swearengen how reluctant you are to leave me alone. I don’t think he’d give a shit, and it won’t help us none in the long run. _

“Y’all should go on without us, if you can manage without the Reverend. Gonna have to do jobs without me for a while anyways, may as well start now.” Clayton bared his teeth at Swearengen in a facsimile of a smile. “Life goes on whether or not you’re beat to shit, ain’t that right?”

Swearengen grinned back. “Now there’s a man who fucking gets it.” He looked around at the rest of their group. “Do any of you have a fucking problem with that, or are you going to do the job and take my fucking money?”

“Alright,” Aly said, “I’m in.” Miriam and Arabella glanced at Clayton, then at Matthew, then nodded.

“We’ll get it done, Mister Swearengen.”

He hit his hand on the table. “Excellent.” He pointed at Matthew and Clayton. “The two of you mind fucking off while I give these fine people the details?”

Clayton stood and tipped his hat. “Not at all. Good luck with the job, folks.”

* * *

Clayton and Matthew had barely made it down the stairs when they heard someone calling for Matthew.

“Reverend Mason?”

They both turned to see a boy, maybe nine, ten years old who was standing in the Gem and looking nervously at the two of them. Matthew smiled and beckoned him over.

“Yes, son?”

“Sherriff Bullock sent me to find you, there’s been a shootin’. Said to get you and bring you to the doc’s before he dies.”

“Alright. Thank you for telling me.” Matthew slipped the boy a coin, then nodded towards the door. “I’ll be along shortly, okay?”

The boy nodded and booked it out the door, running in the direction of Doc Ashby’s office. Matthew looked at Clayton, a frown tugging at his mouth.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t want you left alone. Think I have time to walk you home first? Or should we wait and get one of the others to go with you?”

Clayton shook his head. “Best go. I’ll head back to yours on my own, it’ll be fine.”

“You could come with me?”

Clayton raised an eyebrow. _That sounds fucking terrible._ “And watch some idiot bleed out? I’ll pass, thanks.”

“But –“

He interrupted before Matthew could continue the thought. “I’ll be _fine_, Reverend.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, and squared his shoulders in an attempt to hide the pain and exhaustion weighing him down. _Come on, Matty, I don’t wanna tell all these assholes that I’m too fuckin’ tired and sore to go on a field trip with you._ “Go on, before the poor fucker dies with no preacher to pray over his soul, or whatever the fuck it is you do.”

Matthew laughed, and started for the door. “Alright, alright. Here.” He passed off the key to the parsonage, gloved fingers brushing lightly against Clayton’s. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Be _safe_, okay?” He looked hard at Clayton, the intensity of his worry making Clayton’s gut clench. Clayton nodded, heart suddenly racing. Matthew nodded back, checked that Clayton’s guns were in place, and the intensity fled, replaced by what Clayton often thought of as his ‘placid preacher look’. “Alright. I won’t be long.”

And then he was gone, rushing out the door and into the sunlight.

Clayton took a deep breath, then let it out. He glanced at Dan, who raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping. Clayton scowled at him as he limped towards the bar.

“Mornin’, Mister Sharpe.”

“Mornin’ Dan. Would you be so kind as to get me a bottle of whiskey for the road?”

Dan nodded and turned around to pick a bottle from the shelf, speaking over his shoulder as he did so.

“See you’ve been in a spot of trouble. Hope you’re healin’ up alright.”

“Oh, I’m doin’ just fine,” Clayton drawled, bristling at the direction the conversation was heading. Dan didn’t notice, or if he did he gave no indication of caring.

“Well, that’s mighty good to hear. I heard the good Reverend had taken you in, what with your… ailments.”

Clayton scowled. _“Ailments.” Fuck you too, Dan_. “Y’all still keepin’ track of everything I do?”

Dan turned back around and grinned. “It’s part of what we do, you know that.” He set the bottle on the counter, then waived off the money Clayton offered him. “On the house.”

Clayton left a small stack of bills on the counter anyway. _The less debts I have to Swearengen the better. _He tipped his hat, grinned in a way that he hoped was convincing, and swiped the bottle from the counter. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

He stalked out of the Gem, squinting in the sudden brightness of the morning sun. His head pounded, as it always seemed to when faced with the bright South Dakota sun since… all of it happened. _That’s getting old real fast_, he thought, glaring at nothing in particular. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, ducked his head, and headed for the parsonage.

* * *

He took a longer route than he should have back to the parsonage, meandering through the busy thoroughfare and hoping no one was paying him any mind. He knew he needed to explore beyond the walls of the parsonage on his own, needed to get used to being out and about, but he wasn’t sure what to do with how uneasy he was, and how vulnerable he felt. A familiar itch was growing between his shoulder blades, the same one that had warned him of watching eyes so many times in the past; he didn’t know who was watching him, or if he was simply imagining it, but didn’t want to take any chances. He settled his shoulders and ducked under his hat, trying to appear smaller, nonchalant and non-threatening, and less noticeable than he knew the bandages and sling made him appear.

_Fuck, I ain’t used to standin’ out this much. This goddamn sling makes me a fuckin’ target._ He excelled in going unnoticed, in staying hidden and avoiding unwanted attention. Now, though. Now he was limping slowly along the thoroughfare, dressed down by necessity, coat slung over his shoulders like a goddamn cape, arm in a sling and bandages still visible on his head and wrists. He looked like he’d come through a war, and in this town, that made him easy pickings. For theft at the very least, and in Deadwood there was always the possibility of someone out for blood. _Doesn’t help that we’re startin’ to make a name for ourselves. Too many people know who I am now._

As soon as he could he slipped down a side alley, breathing a little easier once he was off the thoroughfare. He meandered down the narrow street, littered with refuse and bottles, the filth of Deadwood on full display. He had barely gone a block when he heard glass shatter behind him, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. _Fuck. _

He picked up his pace, stepping quicker despite the way his ankle shrieked in protest. He threw a glance behind him and caught a glimpse of a broad figure in the shadows picking it’s way in his direction. _Fuck. Shit. Goddamn._

Clayton’s heart started racing, hands going clammy and cold, whole body tense and ready. His head spun, world seeming to warp around him in anticipation of whatever was coming. His hands itched to grab his gun, to drop the bottle and draw, to pull his other arm out of the goddamn sling, injury be damned, and prepare to defend himself. He stayed his hand, not wanting whoever was tailing him to know he’d noticed. He started scanning up ahead for the next alley he could duck down, hoping beyond hope that there would be somewhere to hide. _At least so I have time to draw, so they don’t fucking pin me._

The footsteps were still following, echoing louder in his ears. His throat felt tight, his face hot, and he could’ve sworn the alley was getting smaller. Finally he spied a break in the row of shoddily built houses a few feet ahead. He forced himself to maintain the same steady speed, to not bolt around the corner and make a break for it. _You know how this works, Sharpe. Play the game. Bide your time._

He ducked around the corner, hand shaking around the neck of the whiskey bottle, and scanned the street. _Fuck_, it was almost empty, just a few crates and stacks of lumber filling the space. He walked as hastily as he could, and saw a thin gap between two ramshackle houses.

_It’ll have to do. _

He slipped between the buildings and pressed his shoulders against the nearest wall, back to whoever was following him. He set the whiskey down and drew his colt, heart hammering away in his chest, and willed himself to melt into the shadows. He forced himself to listen, to loosen his grip, to steady his hand; it helped, but only marginally, quieting the panic just enough for him to breathe. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart and the blood rushing through his ears. _C’mon, you fucker._

Seconds passed, then minutes, but man following him never appeared. _What the fuck, where ARE you, stop fuckin’ hiding. _Another minute, then two. Clayton shifted closer to the opening between the houses, heart hammering faster, and peered around the wall, colt aimed at whoever was waiting.

There was no one there. _What the hell… where the fuck did they go? _The street was as empty as it had been when he rushed down it, with only a few crates and wood and trash scattered throughout the street. Then movement caught his eye. He swung his arm and aimed, finger shifting on the trigger and –

_Fuck. Fucking shit._

It was a goddamn _rat_. Clayton dropped his arm and sagged back against the wall, limbs suddenly wobbly as the adrenaline faded. He shut his eyes and willed the thudding of his heart to slow. He couldn’t hear anyone in the alley, sure as shit couldn’t see anyone, and couldn’t even tell if they’d been _there._

_Fucking hell. Was someone even fucking** following** me? Or did I just imagine it?_ He wanted to smack himself, to scream, to do anything to stop the flood of anxiety that seemed determined to come at any given moment, to stop being so goddamn _useless_._ Nothing’s there. Go the fuck home, Sharpe. _

He forced himself to holster his gun, picked up the whiskey with a shaking hand, and limped down the alleyway.

* * *

_Fuck. You fucking useless piece of shit, can’t even make it home without losin’ your mind. _Clayton grit his teeth and kept his head down, stumbling through the streets towards the parsonage. The church loomed up ahead, oddly comforting for all he didn’t enjoy being in the building, and a pang of relief washed through him. _C’mon, you’re almost there, keep your shit together. _

Time stretched, then snapped back together, and then he was dropping the whiskey to the ground, digging the key Matthew had given him out with one shaky hand, and fumbling with the lock.

“Fucking useless – come _on_.”

The key wasn’t working. He swore and jiggled it again, then slammed his hand against the door when it still wouldn’t fucking open. _Fuck._ Clayton pressed his forehead against the door and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his hand to stop shaking and his eyes to stop burning. _Don’t you fucking cry, you goddamn asshole_. One breath, then two, then he picked up the key and tried again.

The lock clicked open. He stuffed the key into his pocket, picked up the bottle, and slipped inside, nearly slamming the door in his haste. He dropped the whiskey on the nearest sofa and locked the door, then dragged the chair from Matthew’s desk over, jamming it under the door handle.

“Fuck,” he breathed, limbs suddenly tingling as the panic he’d been trying to shove away crashed in with a fury. It buzzed through his body, sharp and furious, like a beehive had been shoved into his chest. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

He slumped back against the wall beside the sofa, sliding down to sit on the floor, well out of sight of the windows. He held his gun in his lap, tried to stop shaking, and waited.

* * *

Time passed, shadows shrinking as the sun grew higher in the sky. Clayton stayed where he was, slumped against the wall, gun in hand, flinching at every sound that came from outside. The panic waned, sharpened, then waned again, coming and going seemingly at random. Then the crunch of footsteps sounded outside, and his attention narrowed in on the door. Someone was turning the handle, testing it, pushing against the lock. The door rattled against it’s frame. A shadow passed by the window, then disappeared.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Clayton gripped his gun tighter.

A knock sounded, hollow and resonant through the small house. “Clayton? Are you in there?”

It was Matthew. _Fuck, of course it is. Who the fuck else would it be, asshole?_

“Fuck,” he hissed, leveraging himself up off the floor. His breathe caught at the pain that washed through him as he started to move, reminding him that sitting on the hard wood floor with extensive injuries may not have been the wisest idea. On top of it, his ass and legs were numb, and his spine and ribs screamed in protest. Matthew knocked again. “One moment,” he called, stumbling across the narrow space to the door. He holstered the colt and dragged the chair away, then fumbled to open the lock. “Goddamn finicky fucking lock –“

He pulled open the door a crack and peered outside. Matthew’s smile quickly dropped when he saw Clayton, and he gently pushed his way inside. He scanned Clayton head to toe, as if looking for more injuries.

“What happened?” Matthew’s voice was too calm, even and measured and low. He closed the door behind him. “Fuck, you look like you saw a ghost.”

“Nothing happened,” Clayton said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Not a goddamn thing. I’m _fine_.” The part of his brain that wouldn’t stop screaming about danger honed in on the unsecured door. He reached around Matthew and locked it. “Can you –“ he pulled Matthew out of the way, then shoved the chair back under the handle. He turned away, scanning for the best place to sit, when Matthew snagged his uninjured arm. 

“Hey, hey –“ Matthew stepped closer, scanning his face. “If nothing happened, why’re you lockin’ us up tighter than the Alamo in the middle of the mornin’?”

“I’m _not_,” he spat back, tugging his arm from Matthew’s grip. He paced back towards the couch, glancing at the window, then back at Matthew. “Ain’t safe, is all, leavin’ the door unlocked.”

“Alright,” Matthew said slowly, carefully. Clayton’s hackles raised. “You gonna stop bein’ defensive and tell me what happened then?”

“Nothing _fucking_ happened!“ Panic tightened his chest again, choking out the words, and Clayton’s head spun.

Hands settled on his shoulders, heavy and big, and he tore himself away, darting across the room. His back was in the corner before he could speak.

“Don’t – don’t fucking touch me – “

His vision cleared, showing Matthew’s startled face.

“I won’t. I won’t Clay, I’m sorry. It’s just me, you’re in my house –“

Clayton’s legs went wobbly, and he slid his way down the wall to crouch on the ground, pressed into corner. Across the room Matthew knelt on the ground, placing the sofa between them, barely visible over the arm. For some reason that helped, his looming height and breadth reduced to something less threatening.

“You’re panicking, Clay.”

“No _shit_,” he gasped, sucking in air. He dug his fingers into his thigh, nails sharp even through his trousers. _God, why can’t I fucking stop? _

“Just breathe,” Matthew murmured. “In and out, real slow-like. We’re not in a rush, ain’t got anywhere to be.”

Clayton closed his eyes and breathed, following Matthew’s voice. He kept talking, that slow, quiet tone that he adopted whenever Clayton was losing his shit. _Maybe someday he won't have to handle me_, he thought mirthlessly. _Maybe someday I won't lose my shit all the goddamn time._

Then suddenly the panic shifted, something inside of him twisting, grief and anger mixing with the fear, and then he was crying. Tears poured down his cheeks as he gasped for air, ribs and lungs burning. He slid further down the wall, knees curled into his chest, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. _Stop. Stop crying. _

Matthew’s voice didn’t change. “You’re alright, Clay. Breathe, darlin’.”

The need for space dissolved. _Fuck. _“Will you come hold me?” he whispered, before he could second-guess himself, before he could convince himself to never fucking ask, that it was _weak_ to ask.

“Yeah, sweetheart, if that’s what you want.” Floorboards creaked, and when Matthew spoke his voice came from higher up. “Are you… is it alright if I come over?”

Clayton slid his hand into his hair and gripped tight, relishing the spark of pain in his scalp. _You’re still here, Sharpe. Still alive._ He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and nodded, tears still streaming down his face. “Please,” he whispered.

In the span of a moment Matthew was sliding down the wall beside him and slinging a tentative arm around his shoulders. Clayton turned and curled into him, best he could with his broken wrist still strapped across his chest.

“Oh, Clay…” Matthew pulled him in close, tucking him to his chest and burying his nose in Clayton’s hair. “You’ll be alright, love. You’re safe now.”

“I’m so _tired_,” he whispered, tears soaking the front of Matthew’s shirt. “I just want it to stop.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Matthew whispered. “I know. I want it to stop for you, too.”

* * *

He cried until he couldn’t, until the panic and tears waned into a heavy exhaustion. He shifted in Matthew’s arms and felt his body shriek in protest. His wrist _ached_, his whole body did, really, a throbbing mass of pain now that the adrenaline and panic had fled. The wooden splint was hard under his arm, digging bruises into his forearm, and the knot from the sling rubbed against his neck. He curled his arm into his chest, holding it close, and sat up, out of Matthew’s arms. Matthew let him go easily, hand falling to his back and smoothing a circle across it.

“How you feelin’?” Matthew asked, soft and quiet. 

“Alright.” Clayton cleared his throat and scrubbed at his eyes. “God, I’m a fucking wreck,” he muttered. “Sorry for snottin’ all over your shirt.”

Matthew smiled and put a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking away the remnants of a tear. “All good, Clay. Ain’t hard to wash a shirt. C’mon.”

He heaved himself to standing, then extended a hand to Clayton, pulling him gently to his feet when Clayton took his hand, then over to the couch. Clayton barely felt the pain in his shoulder over the ache in his whole body, and the fatigue that crashed in once he started moving.

“Why don’t you sit, and I’ll put the kettle on? Make you some tea? Some of that stuff Miriam left.”

Clayton nodded. “Sure.” His throat went tight again. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Matthew squeezed his hand. “I’m happy to take care of you, y’know? Been a long time since I had – well, since I had anyone to take care of.”

Clayton smiled weakly. “I know the feeling. I just… wish you didn’t have to, is all. I’m getting’ tired of being so useless.”

Matthew shook his head. “You’re not useless, Clay.”

Clayton gave him a thin smile. “You keep on sayin’ that, but I still feel like I am. Can’t even fuckin’ make it home without losin’ my mind.”

Matthew frowned. “You’re not losing your mind, either. I don’t know what happened, but I know you’re not crazy.”

Clayton grimaced. “I had a notion that someone was following me and freaked the fuck out. They weren’t,” he hastened to add when Matthew startled. “Leastwise I don’t think they were. I was just jumpin’ at shadows.”

“You’re sure?” Matthew was still frowning. “Someone following you, that’s a mighty concerning thing.”

Clayton nodded. “I’m sure. There wasn’t anyone there.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d guess someone was takin’ the same route I was, but I saw someone behind me and just… lost it. I was so sure he was gonna…” He trailed off, not even able to finish the sentence, mind swirling with the _what-ifs_ and the fear of someone tracking him again.

Matthew tugged on his hand, bringing him back to the moment. He sat down on the sofa and gave Clayton puppy-dog eyes, smiling softly when Clayton huffed and joined him. The sofa was soft underneath him, and he let his eyes close for a moment, sinking back into the plush surface. He rolled his shoulders, grimacing at how tight they were. _Goddamn sling, gonna ruin my other shoulder before the one I got shot in’s even healed._

“Hand me that cushion, will you?” He nodded further down the sofa, and tucked it under his broken arm when Matthew passed it over. He eased the sling over his head, sighing as some of the pain in his shoulder diminished. When he looked back at Matthew the other man had a calculating look in his eyes.

“Is the sling hurting your shoulders?” he asked.

Clayton grimaced again. “Yeah, makes ‘em stiff.”

Matthew nodded. “We’ll have to try and have your arm propped up or something whenever we can, ain’t no use in havin’ it on if you don’t have to.”

Clayton nodded, and sensed the space shift back to the previous conversation. Matthew watched him, patiently waiting for him to speak.

“I’m so good at bein’ on my own,” he said finally, staring across the room. “Ain’t ever had anyone around to pick up my shit when I was stumblin’. I shouldn’t _need_ this. Shouldn’t need you to – to fucking _hold_ me, or calm me down when I’m panicking. Shouldn’t _be_ panicking at all.”

“It’s not a weakness, Clayton.”

Clayton laughed bitterly. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You ain’t the one bein’ weak.”

“It ain’t weak to need help,” Matthew insisted. “It’s you that needs it today, sure, but maybe tomorrow it’ll be me. Or Aly, or Arabella, or Miriam. And sure, maybe I wouldn’t hold any of them like I do you, but I’d be there for them just the same.”

“I know you would.” Clayton tried to smile, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Doesn’t really change how I feel, though.”

Matthew nodded. “I know. I know it doesn’t. Think we may just have to agree to disagree on this one. Just… remember that I don’t think you’re weak. Alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Matthew smiled and took his hand. “That’s all I ask. C’mon, how about we get you that tea?”

Clayton nodded. Matthew squeezed his hand and stood. Clayton moved to follow, then immediately sat back down as his head spun, roaring filling his ears and vision spotted at the edges.

“_Fuck_.”

When his vision cleared Matthew was crouched in front of him and frowning.

“You alright? You went pretty pale there for a minute.”

Clayton nodded, swallowing down the nausea the movement brought. “Just lightheaded.”

“Hmm.” Matthew touched the back of his hand to Clayton’s forehead, then touched his cheek. “Think your fever’s back, love.”

Clayton grimaced, now noticing the chills running up and down his spine. _Goddammit._ “Figures.”

“This is why it ain’t a weakness, Clayton,” Matthew said softly. “Ain’t just like you’re upset for no goddamn reason. You’re hurting, and sick, and had something awful happen to you.”

A lump grew in Clayton’s throat. “I know.”

Matthew’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, and Matthew smiled again. “Just think about it, okay?”

“Alright,” Clayton whispered. Matthew nodded and kissed his forehead, then stood.

“You want some food? Or just tea?”

Clayton took a moment and assessed himself, noticing the lingering nausea and the pain that was rapidly becoming worse and worse. “Just tea. Don’t think I can handle anything else,” he admitted.

“Alright. I’ll just be a moment.”

Clayton laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to calm the pounding in his head. A fresh wave of exhaustion swept through him, bringing with it the damnable welling in his chest**. **He bit his lip as tears stung his eyes. _C’mon. You’re fine. You’re fucking FINE. _

He dug his nails into his leg and sucked in a breath of air, trying to stop the tears from coming. He’d almost succeeded when Matthew stepped back into the room.

“Got the stove goin’, it’ll be a few.” He sat back down on the couch, close enough that their shoulders could touch, then tilted his head towards him. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Clayton muttered, eyes still shut tight. He let out a sigh, relaxing the grip he had on his leg. A shiver ran up his spine, the fever making its presence known. “Just. It’s a lot.”

“I know. It makes sense that it’ll take time to feel like you’re on solid ground again.”

Clayton nodded, and leaned closer, resting his head on Matthew’s shoulder. After a moment a hand slid into his, then lips pressed against his forehead.

“You’ll be alright,” Matthew murmured. “I know you will.”

* * *

When the kettle whistled Matthew left, returning shortly with a cup of willow bark tea.

“Thought it’d be good to take something that’ll help with the fever,” he said. “But if you’d rather peppermint, I can make that instead.”

Clayton shook his head. “This is fine.”

Matthew settled beside him again, a warm weight at his side as Clayton worked his way through the tea. By the time he was finished he felt calmer, and the pain had lessened; not enough to be gone, but enough that he no longer felt like one giant, throbbing bruise. It was easy to rest his head back against Matthew’s shoulder, to let his eyes fall shut, and to relax into the quiet of the day. Before he knew it sleep was tugging at him, and it was only too easy to fall into it’s grasp.

In his sleep, he felt the world shift. The warmth beside him disappeared, then hands were moving him, laying him down, and covering him with something soft and warm. Something touched his cheek, lips pressed against his forehead, and then he was falling back under, deeper than before.

* * *

When Clayton woke the room was quiet. He was laying down on the sofa, a soft blanket tossed over him and a pillow under his head. Some of the pain from before had faded, and he no longer felt quite as feverish. _Fuck. Fell asleep again. _

“Fuck, sorry Matthew, didn’t mean to fall asleep.” His head felt muzzy from the sleep, his thoughts tacky and slow. He shoved himself upright, trying to blink away the fuzziness, and wiped at his eyes.

“He’s not here, Clayton.”

Clayton jumped, head whipping up at the sound of someone who was most definitely _not_ Matthew. His heart pounded in his chest, although the brief moment of panic faded as he saw who was there.

“_Fuck_, Arabella, you scared the shit out of me.”

Arabella smiled at him from the other couch. She was curled up in a decidedly un-ladylike way, legs and skirts tucked underneath her on the sofa with her stocking-ed feet poking out under the hem, a book open in her lap.

“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you heard him leave or not, but I guess that answers it.”

Clayton shook his head with a frown. “Didn’t hear you arrive, either.”

Arabella tucked a bookmark in her book and set it to the side. “You were pretty out of it. He hasn’t been gone long, maybe twenty minutes or so? He stepped out to pick up some groceries, and I think he was going to stop in at Mrs. Blake’s house. Apparently one of her children isn’t well and she thought some prayer might help.”

Clayton snorted. “Glad he hasn’t tried that on me, to heal my wounds.”

Arabella grinned. “I’m sure he knows you’d sooner get shot again than have someone pray over you.”

“You’re not wrong.” Clayton grinned back. “So he left you to mind me for the afternoon?”

“Just to stay with you, keep you company until he gets back. He didn’t want to leave you alone while you were passed out, anyhow, didn’t think you’d be happy with that.”

_He’s not wrong,_ Clayton thought. _It’d probably make me panic all over again. _“Why’re you back, anyhow? Thought the job would be an all-day thing?”

Arabella shrugged. “So did I. Whatever they were worried about never showed, so we rode out, exchanged some goods, and rode back. It was rather boring, if I’m being totally honest.”

“Boring’s better than dangerous, I guess.”

Arabella pursed her lips. “That’s true. Guess it’s better than having more of us out for the count.”

“At least then I wouldn’t be the only sorry bastard unable to do much,” Clayton said drily.

Arabella snorted. “There is that.”

Clayton forced himself to standing, grinding his teeth against the pain that rose with the simple motion. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to step out for a moment.”

Arabella frowned. “Alright, let me put my boots on and I’ll join you.”

Clayton sighed and scrubbed at his face, trying to avoid any of the bruising on his nose and eye. “Steppin’ out to the privy, Arabella, please don’t follow me. Ain’t sure how I’d explain that one to your husband.”

Arabella flushed. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. Don’t worry though, I ain’t gonna make a break for it.” And with that he left the room.

* * *

When he returned Arabella had resumed reading her book. He sat back on the sofa, trying to think of ways to pass the time with no success. He didn’t feel feverish anymore, which was a blessing, but pain still thrummed through his body, the same constant ache. He couldn’t stop from fidgeting, both to try and keep himself awake, to help distract from the pain, and to loosen the low hum of anxiety that had started once he’d returned. Finally Arabella sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Want to play cards? That’ll at least give you something to do.”

Clayton scowled. “I don’t need anything to ‘do’, ‘Bella, I ain’t a kid that needs entertaining.”

“Right,” she said drily, “you’re just a grown-ass man bored out of his mind. What about readin’? If you ain’t interested in cards?”

“It’s fine,” Clayton said, staring up at the ceiling. “I can bide the time just fine.”

“You sure? Matthew said you’ve been reading Treasure Island together.” Arabella said. She stood up and scanned Matthew’s desk, then picked up a familiar book and held it out to Clayton. “You could always pick up where the two of you left off.”

Clayton took it gingerly, not opening it. “Nah, I’ll uh, I’ll wait for Matthew. Wouldn’t want to get ahead.”

“He told me to tell you to go ahead, he’s read it before.” Clayton just looked at it, still not opening it. “You want him to read it to you, huh? Like listening to his voice?” she teased.

Clayton flushed and shot her a glare, but she only grinned in response. “You been talking to Miriam?”

Arabella laughed. “Got my own two eyes, Clayton. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

He laid his head back and groaned. “Fuck, does everybody know? We that fucking obvious?”

“Oh, no, Clay, that ain’t it. I think… I think Miriam and I are possibly a little bit more observant than most folks.” She paused, then continued on. “And Matthew is… a little obvious about his affections for you. He’s very protective.”

Clayton groaned. “Fuck.”

“You are… together, aren’t you? I’m not imagining things?” When he glanced at her Arabella was fidgeting with the book in her lap, clearly worried she’d offended him.

He sighed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, we are. It’s new. But… but it’s there.” He sat up and made eye contact. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, though. It ain’t the sort of thing we need everyone in Deadwood to know about. ‘Specially with how folks like to sling rumours about Matthew.”

“Of course, Clayton. That’s your business, and your business alone.”

He quirked a smile, shoulders relaxing. “Thank you. For that, and for not holdin’ it against me. Against us.”

Arabella smiled back. “My pleasure. I know what it’s like to want someone you ain’t supposed to.”

He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Do you now.” Arabella flushed, and Clayton pushed on. “Pray tell, Miss Arabella, who are you wantin’?”

“I never said I was wantin’ someone now,” she said primly.

Clayton raised his eyebrow higher. “Yet for some reason you’re blushing like an English rose.”

“Ain’t nothing,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “Look, even if I was? There ain’t nothing to be done about it. She… she wouldn’t be interested, anyhow.”

_Well, I’ll be damned. _“Is it perhaps our Miss Miriam?” She flushed a deeper crimson, and he knew he was right on the money. “Well, ain’t that somethin’. She’s a mighty lovely lady, I’ll give you that.”

Arabella buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, Clay. It’s nothing. Just a silly schoolgirl crush. I’ll get over it.”

Clayton hesitated. “Maybe talk to her about it? She seems a mighty… mighty open sort of woman. Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Arabella choked out a laugh and shook her head. “Even if she is, I’m a married woman, and she’s a grieving widower. Ain’t that simple, Clay.”

He let the silence hang between them. “I’m sorry,” he said finally said, soft and quiet. “I ain’t gonna say I know how that feels, but I’ve been in other… complicated situations before. And I’m sorry. I wish it were different.”

Arabella pulled her hands from her face, blowing out a breath of air, then smoothed her hair back into place. “Thank you, Clayton. I know. Wish it were different for you and Matthew, too.”

He nodded. “Got ourselves in a fine pickle, haven’t we?”

Arabella smiled. “We have. Who knew affairs of the heart were do damn complicated?”

“Affairs of the heart, good lord woman,” Clayton muttered, shaking his head.

Arabella laughed. “You just don’t wanna admit it, but that’s what it is, ain’t it?”

Clayton stood up, limping towards the kitchen. “Alright, no more talkin’ about feelings, ‘s done for the day. You want a whiskey?”

Arabella’s laughter followed him into the kitchen.

* * *

When he returned, bottle in hand and two glasses held awkwardly in one hand, Arabella was flipping through the now-familiar book.

“You sure you don’t want to keep reading? Treasure Island’s one of my favourites.” She glanced up and dropped the book, quickly rising to take the glasses and bottle from him. “Shit, sorry, didn’t think or I’d have given you a hand.”

“’S fine,” he said. “Mind pourin’ for us, though? It’s a might hard to open a bottle with one hand.”

Arabella grinned. “You tried, didn’t you?”

“Ain’t gonna answer that,” he muttered, giving her a sour look. Arabella grinned wider.

She prodded his leg. “Honestly, he’ll be fine if you read ahead, Clay. It’ll give you something to do other than just sit here and fidget.”

He shook his head and set the book down on the coffee table. “Nah, that’s okay. Reading just ain’t my thing, I’ll wait for him.”

Arabella peered at him closer, a shadow of a frown crossing her face. “Do you know how to read, Clayton?”

The flush returned two-fold. “I ain’t stupid, Arabella.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she said, voice gentler than he’d ever heard it. “Lots of folks can’t read.”

“I know my letters.” He couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of his voice, or his shoulders from rising to his ears. “Just don’t have a lot of opportunity to practice, okay? I can read well enough to get by, to read what I need to.”

“Like bounty posters?” Arabella asked wryly.

“Yes, Arabella, exactly like bounty posters.” He closed his eyes and set his head back against the sofa, defensiveness draining out of him. “Look, can you drop it? It’s fine.”

The sound of skirts rustling filled the air, and then the couch dipped under weight as she sat beside him.

“How about you and I pick up where Matthew left off, and read it together? I can help you practice.”

He sighed and looked at her. “Don’t need to do that, ‘Bella.”

She smiled and started flipping pages. “Of course I don’t _need_ to, but it’s way more fun than just sitting here with nothing to do. My… my sister used to do this for me all the time, back when we were younger.” He watched her for signs of the sorrow that often clung to Arabella when she talked of Cynthia, but she just smiled softly and continued. “What was the last part you read in the story?”

He sighed. _Well shit, now I can’t say no. _“Here, I think Matty folded the top of the page.”

Arabella flipped to the correct page, frowning at the crease left in the corner of the page. “I hope he doesn’t treat his Bible this way.”

Clayton grinned. “You can tell him off if he does, give him a right scolding for mishandling the word of God.”

“I bet you’d get a real kick out of that,” Arabella laughed.

“Why Missus Whitlock, I don’t know where you got the notion.”

“Alright, here. I’ll read a page, then you can read a page, okay?”

He sighed, and took the side of the book she held out to him. “Alright.”

* * *

That was how Matthew found them, hunched over the book, Clayton following along the text with his finger and stuttering through words. He hardly even noticed the door opening, only looking up when Arabella elbowed him gently in the side. Even the gentle nudge made his breath catch at the pain in his bruised ribs, and he stiffened and bit his lip to try and hide the pain. _Lord, her elbows are sharp._

“Oh! Clayton, you’re awake, that’s good. You’re reading ahead?” Matthew looked pleased as he deposited the paper sacks he was carrying on the floor, then started divesting himself of boots and hat.

Clayton froze. Arabella nudged him again, then answered when he still didn’t speak.

“Yes, we figured you’d be fine with it. Gave us something to pass the time.”

“Wonderful!” Matthew hung up his coat, then sat on the other sofa facing them. “I’m glad you did.”

“How was Missus Blake?” Clayton asked, hoping to move the topic away from the book. _Matthew doesn’t need to know that I ain’t good at reading. Fuck, I hope he didn’t hear me._

“Oh, she’s alright. Worried for her daughter. It’s likely just a cold, but you know how it is with parents.”

_I don’t, actually. _Clayton nodded anyway.

“Glad to hear it, Reverend.” Arabella smiled at Matthew then stood up, sweeping her hands down her dress and straightening her skirts. “Well, I should be heading home, got a few things to do. Thank you for the lovely afternoon, Clayton. It was nice to see you, Matthew.”

Clayton nodded. “Thank you for keepin’ me company, Arabella.” He found that he meant it, despite the lingering frustration at his own inability to be alone right now. Her company had been nice, nicer than he would have expected, if he was being honest.

Matthew watched her gather her hat. “You wanna stay for dinner, ‘Bella? You’re more than welcome. It won’t be anything fancy, but we’d be happy to have you.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, Reverend, but I’m going to have to decline. I’m having dinner with Miriam this evening.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Matthew said. Clayton tried to smother the slow grin that crept across his face.

“Oh? Well ain’t that nice.” Clayton tried to keep the satisfaction out of his voice but something must have bled through anyway because Arabella flushed and smacked his leg.

“Ain’t like that, Clayton.”

He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh, sure it ain’t. You give Miss Landisman our regards, alright? Hope you enjoy your ‘dinner’.”

Arabella secured her hat on her head, then went to the door. “Good day, Reverend, it was lovely to see you. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, please tell Mister Sharpe he can kindly go fuck himself.”

She swooped out the door, and Clayton burst into laughter. “Have a nice night, Arabella!” he called after her. Arabella gave him the middle finger as she disappeared through the doorway, then slammed the door in response.

“What on earth was that about?”

Clayton smiled. “It’s nothing.” Matthew raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Well, ain’t my business to be talkin’ about,” Clayton amended. “They’ll tell you in time.”

Matthew shook his head, a smile curling around his lips. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it.” He crossed the room and sat on the sofa beside Clayton.

Clayton leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for not pressin’.”

Matthew smiled against his lips. “Of course, darlin’,” he whispered.

When he pulled back Matthew picked up the book and held it out. “Would you like to keep reading? I don’t mind.”

Clayton shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow. ‘S hard to keep the words straight right now, they keep blurrin’,” he admitted. _Goddamn head wound. _

Matthew frowned. “Your head sore?” When Clayton nodded he took hold of Clayton’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Did you want to lay down while I cook dinner?”

“Nah, that’s alright. Kind of rather just keep you company, if you don’t mind?”

Matthew smiled and stood up, scooping up the sacks of groceries from the ground. “Of course. C’mon, let’s go see what we can rustle up.”

* * *

“Fuck, that smells really good.”

Matthew looked back from where he stood at the stove with a smile. “Yeah? You actually feelin’ hungry?”

“Kind of?” Clayton stood and walked over to the stove, watching as Matthew took the lid off the dutch oven to check on their meal. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and for the first time in days it didn’t come with any nausea. “Ain’t had spotted pup in _years_, can’t believe you made it.”

Matthew smiled and bumped his shoulder. “Thought it might be softer on your stomach. Rice can be a bit easier to handle, and they had raisins at the grocers.”

“Thank you,” Clayton said softly, cheeks warming at the care. “Didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, ain’t just for you, spotted pup is one of my favourites.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”

They ate quietly, sitting at Matthew’s table with plates of spotted pup. Matthew had made more tea for Clayton, peppermint this time. He drank it dutifully, hoping it would keep his nerves calm. For the first time in days he managed a full meal. The spotted pup was soft and delicious, and better than he remembered.

“You’re a good cook,” Clayton said, glancing up from his meal. “Ain’t had something this good in a while.”

Matthew blushed. “Well thank you, Clayton. Ain’t nothing special, but I do know a few tricks.”

Clayton smiled. “Why do I not believe that? I’ll bet you’re able to whip up lots of things.”

Matthew laughed. “I may have worked on a chuck wagon for a few years,” he admitted. “That was some time ago, but I’ve got a good memory for that sort of thing. And I enjoy it, so it’s been something I’ve kept up in my spare time.”

“That sounds nice,” Clayton said. “Mighty useful hobby, if you can call it that.”

“It is at that.” Matthew cocked his head to the side. “What about you? You have anything you enjoy doin’ like that?”

Clayton shook his head. “Nah, not really. Don’t mind playin’ cards as a way to pass the time. Ain’t like I’ve had a lot of time to while away, y’know?”

“I know the feeling. It’s nice, though, havin’ a hobby. When you do have the time.”

“Guess I’m gonna have to find one,” Clayton said, shaking his head. “Lord knows I’ll have more time on my hands than I know what to do with for the next few weeks.”

Matthew hummed. “Well, what’d you do to pass the time before all of this?”

Clayton gestured around uselessly. “Drank, worked, I dunno, whatever anybody does to pass the time around here.” A sad look passed over Matthew’s face, and Clayton bristled. “Well, what the fuck do _you_ do?”

Matthew thought for a moment, then frowned. “Read, I suppose. Visit parishioners.” He chuckled. “Guess I’m just as bad as you. Downtime isn’t something I tend to have an awful lot of.”

“Guess so.” Something pinged in Clayton’s brain. “Hey, what day is it?”

“Friday,” Matthew said, looking puzzled. “Why?”

He tried to think back. “When… when did they take me?”

“Ah. It would’ve been Thursday evening, we realized you were missing last Friday.”

“Fuck me, it’s been a whole goddamn week.” He shook his head. “I know it felt long as fuck, but… a whole week. Fuck.”

“I know. It’s felt long for me, too.” Matthew sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Chasin’ after you, then finding you… some of the longest days of my life.”

“You missed Church,” Clayton realized.

Matthew nodded. “And I’d miss it again, if I had to. In a heartbeat.”

Clayton looked down at the table. “Well, I hope you won’t have to,” he muttered. “I don’t think any of us want something like this to happen again.” 

“I hope so too, Clay.”

When he glanced up Matthew was watching him, chin propped up on his hand. Clayton bit his lip and slid his hand across the table until he could brush his fingers against the back of Matthew’s hand. Matthew smiled and turned his hand over, taking Clayton’s hand in his. Something warm bloomed in Clayton’s chest and he ducked his head, hiding his smile. _Now when did you get so soft, Sharpe?_

Clayton shunted away the thought and cleared his throat. “Do you have a sermon to write? For church this week, I mean.”

“Oh right,” Matthew muttered. “I should probably do that.”

Clayton squeezed his hand. “I can find something to occupy my time, if you want to work on it tonight.”

Matthew hesitated. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Nah. I’ve got a deck of cards buried somewhere, I’m sure I can manage solitaire or somethin’ if you shuffle the deck for me.”

“Alright.” Matthew smiled, then stood up and walked around the table, leaning down to smudge a kiss against Clayton’s mouth. “Want to keep me company while I clean up, then we can move to the sitting room?”

Clayton nodded, then pulled him back down for another kiss.

“I’d love to.”

* * *

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Matthew cleaned and re-bandaged Clayton’s wrists and head, then they moved into the sitting room. Clayton managed to make it through a few games of solitaire, handing the deck to Matthew to shuffle between rounds. He also watched Matthew work, scribbling away at loose paper as he hunched over his bible at the desk. It was so _domestic_, in a way that Clayton hadn’t had in… in years, really, maybe since he was a kid. He couldn’t help but feel satisfied, happy almost, and found that he liked the quiet, and liked spending it with Matthew. Besides, it was fun to watch him work. Matthew muttered to himself as he scanned through his Bible, and once Clayton even caught him sticking his tongue out while he fervently wrote something down. He had so many little things that made him so real, so human, and Clayton couldn’t help but smile each time he noticed them. _How’re you so lovely?_

Eventually the day caught up with him, and Matthew closed his books after Clayton had yawned one too many times.

“C’mon, Clay, let’s head to bed.”

“Your sermon,” Clayton protested, cutting off mid-way with another yawn.

Matthew smiled and held out his hand, then pulled Clayton to his feet. “I can finish it in the morning.”

Before long they were both in their nightclothes, tucked into bed. Before they said goodnight Clayton rolled towards Matthew, carefully tucking his broken arm against his chest. He shifted around on the mattress, trying to find a position that didn’t make his shoulder grumble or his ribs protest. Finally he gave up, knowing that some part of him would be in pain regardless of how he lay.

“Matty? I forgot to tell you… Arabella and Miriam know. About us.”

Matthew looked at him, but it was too dark to make out the expression on his face. “They do?”

“I didn’t tell them,” he hastened to say, anxiety suddenly twisting at the idea that Matthew might think he was spreading the news without any discussion about it between them. “They’re too fuckin’ smart, they both told me they knew. They were… they were real good about it, though. Kind, happy, even.”

“Oh,” Matthew said, the tension in his frame relaxing. “Oh, I’m not worried about you tellin’ them, Clay. Just a bit surprised, is all.” He looked at Clayton. “Are you alright with that? With them knowing?”

“Not much I can do about, even if I wasn’t alright with it,” Clayton admitted. “I don’t mind, I think they’ll keep it secret for us. I just…” he mulled over what he was trying to say, then looked up at Matthew. “I wanted it to be ours, y’know? Just for a little while longer.”

Matthew shifted closer, close enough for Clayton to make out the soft smile on his face. “I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I kinda like havin’ you all to myself, having _this_ all to myself. At least for now.”

Clayton nodded. “I’m worried that someone’ll find out and won’t be happy with it. Two men ain’t always looked kindly upon.”

“I know. We’ll be careful. I think our companions would back us up if anyone complained too loudly, though.”

“I know. It just… feels like anytime I’ve got somethin’ good it gets torn away,” he whispered. “I don’t want that to happen. Not with this.”

Matthew pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his hair. “I won’t let that happen. Not if I can help it.”

Clayton nodded and pressed his forehead to Matthew’s chest. “I know. I won’t, either. You’re… important. To me.”

Matthew hummed in agreement. “You’re important to me too, Clayton. More than you know.”

Clayton smiled, and settled closer. That was how he fell asleep, curled into Matthew’s warmth, listening to the steady sound of his heart beating.

* * *

He woke up screaming three hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope y’all enjoyed!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> For those curious, spotted pup is a dish made with rice, raisins, and a milk/egg mixture that was eaten by cowboys in the 1800s. The recipe can be found [here](https://www.chroniclesoftheoldwest.com/chuckwagon.shtml#spotted_pup).


	9. Home (The Third Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things settle down, and start to feel like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Peers out from the hole this fic has been hiding in._
> 
> Howdy folks! Guess what? This chapter is finally done!!
> 
> Anyway, apologies to any of you that thought this fic was dead; it still lives, somehow. Thanks for your patience as you waited for me to figure out how the heck to end this thing! Big shoutout to everyone over on the UnDeadwood discord for being amazing and supportive, y'all are the absolute best <3 Extra thanks to the wonderful sondering_on for her help beta'ing some of this chapter!
> 
> This is the last full chapter! There is still an epilogue left, and knowing me it'll still be pretty long, but hopefully won't take as long to write as the last few chapters. I'm pretty excited; this has been in the works for over a year, and will mark my first complete multi-chaptered fic. So thanks to all of you for sticking along! I'm pretty happy with this chapter, and hope y'all enjoy it too. 
> 
> This chapter is mainly a lot of soft stuff - that said, there are some of the usual warnings, mainly for the first half of the chapter: trauma responses, nightmares (containing descriptions of violence and a bit of gore) anxiety, self-deprecating thoughts, medical stuff (bandaging wounds and the like, nothing explicit), some mentions of issues with food. A warning for more vomiting as well. There is no smut in this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Clayton sat on the back steps of the parsonage and watched the stars fade into the pre-dawn light, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his hand. He’d give anything for a cigarette, but he knew that even _if_ he’d be able to dig his tobacco out from his bag, he wouldn’t be able to roll one with only one hand. (He ignored the fact that his hands were shaking, and that he wouldn’t have been able to roll even if he had the use of both hands.) So he’d snagged the next best thing, and slipped out the creaky back door. That had been an hour ago, with the anxiety and fear from the dreams still buzzing under his skin.

He’d first woken around midnight, screaming bloody murder into the dark room as hazy visions of Bill and Mac swam through his dreams. They were twisted, and sharp, bits and pieces of recent events mixing with old things, ancient things, things he thought he’d long left behind. Bill’s hand around his throat, the voice of his mother echoing behind him and telling him to run; the damned snakes, thousands of them splitting into thousands more, a shower of snakeskin left behind, himself tied and gagged and unable to move; Miriam, crying, being led away from him by a tight-lipped Matthew; his own hand touching Matthew’s shoulder, then finding the face of Bill as the other man turned around.

And here he’d thought the nightmares had been over.

Matthew had woken him the first time, shaking his shoulder until he startled awake, screams still echoing around the room. The next three times he’d woken silently, and lain in the dark as he tried desperately not to wake Matthew. It had worked, for the most part. Once Matthew had woken enough to mumble some incoherent comforting words and tuck Clayton closer to him. It had made Clayton smile despite everything, at this unconscious attempt to comfort. But Matthew, it seemed, was a heavy sleeper, and he’d not woken again. When he woke for the fourth time, Clayton had slipped from bed, put his arm in it’s sling, snagged his trousers and gun belt, and crept out the door.

_Should’ve grabbed a blanket, _he thought idly, taking another swig of whiskey. He was cold, but for now that was better than the sweaty discomfort that the nightmares had brough. He wasn’t drunk, not exactly, just buzzed exactly enough for the panic to simmer into something manageable, and for the pain to numb. Being numb felt good, even if he knew it wouldn’t last. _Shouldn’t_ last, either. The numbness, although more pleasant than… than whatever had been happening lately, was dangerous. He’d used whiskey to numb things before, and it always made him slower, foggier, less aware, more susceptible to attacks from any number of sources. It was dangerous, and therefore it was unsustainable.

But for now it was fine. He had his guns, and he had his whiskey, and the sun would be rising soon.

* * *

The sun was just creeping up over the horizon, painting the skies in a brilliant wash of pink and orange, when the door creaked open behind him. Clayton flinched at the sound**,** but managed to keep himself from reaching for his gun. Footsteps padded across the porch, then a thick woolen blanket draped around his shoulders.

“You should’a woken me,” Matthew said as he settled himself beside Clayton. His voice was groggy, and his hair was mussed, lines from the pillow printed on his face. An unbearable fondness swept through Clayton at the sight of him, and a touch of warmth crept into his body for the first time since he’d snuck out two hours ago. Matthew leaned against him, a solid weight at his side, and Clayton exhaled, felt some of the tension leave his body. It was still so early, and there was no one around. He felt safe in this, for the moment.

“You need your sleep,” Clayton murmured. He took another swig of whiskey, felt the burn down his throat.

Matthew made a disapproving sound. “Not that bad, I don’t.”

Fingers bumped against his, gently prying the bottle from his grasp. Clayton let it go with a sigh. Matthew’s hand closed around his, pressing warmth into his numb fingers.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Matthew muttered. “How long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know.” The lie tripped off his lips easily enough. “Not that long.”

Matthew wrapped an arm around his back, drawing him further into his warmth. Clayton shuddered, burrowing closer. _Jesus_, he was cold.

Warm lips smudged a kiss to his temple. Clayton let his eyes fall shut, let the simple affection seep into his soul. The fatigue he’d been fighting crept back in, and he felt himself start to drift. Just for a moment, then he jerked himself back away, struggling back upright. He looked at the sun, not wanting to see the frown (or the disappointment) that he was sure would be gracing Matthew’s face.

“You’re exhausted, Clay. Why don’t you come back to bed, at least for a little while?”

Clayton shook his head stubbornly. “I’m good.”

Matthew sighed. “You’re not, sweetheart.” Clayton scowled and bristled, but Matthew pressed another kiss to his hair. “That wasn’t an accusation. But you’re exhausted, and hurt, and your fever is probably up, too.”

Clayton paused. _Well shit, I ain’t thought of that. _But sure enough, as soon as he focused inwards, he felt the sweeping fatigue, the ache of barely-healed injuries, and the steady burn of a fever. _Fuck._

“Come on inside. I’ll make you some tea, maybe some breakfast, and we can get you warm.”

Clayton sighed but let Matthew pull him to his feet. “Alright.”

* * *

He fell asleep while Matthew was making breakfast. He’d leaned back in his chair, head against the kitchen wall, listening to the sounds of Matthew puttering around. As the kitchen warmed up with the sun and the stove the exhaustion seeped back in, making his limbs heavy. He’d jerked himself awake twice before his eyes finally fell shut, lulled by Matthew’s quiet voice.

* * *

The lull didn’t last long. The dreams crept back in, nauseating pictures of Bill, head crushed in and neck twisted to the side, sauntering down the thoroughfare like just like Wild Bill had so long ago. Matthew and Miriam, standing to the side, watching him advance and doing nothing to stop it, nothing to help. Arabella, turning her back as clawed hands reached for Clayton’s neck. Mac’s hands curling around Clayton’s arms, tearing them behind him as he tries to scream but he _can’t,_ why can’t he scream why can’t he –

“Clay.”

The voice is distant, watery and thin, nothing of substance. It’s gone in an instant, covered by the sound of thunder rolling through the canyon. A whisper, turning into a jeer, all of their voices combined to sound out one word:

“_Murderer.”_

He tries to scream no, to say that it wasn’t him, but he still _can’t _and they are leaving, Matthew and Miriam are shaking their heads as he struggles, as he pulls against Mac’s hands. They turn away, led by Aly and Arabella into the shadows beyond. Bill laughs, booming until it echoes all around them, as his claws curl around Clayton’s throat. He stops breathing.

“_Clayton_.”

Clayton startled awake as a hand touched his arm, thrashing out at whoever was in front of him with his unbroken arm. Matthew jerked back with a curse, catching his arm before it could smack him in the face. Clayton froze at the same time Matthew did, Matthew’s long fingers curled around his wrist, right over the heavy bandages.

“_Fuck_.”

Clayton shook himself free and bolted for the door, bile rising in his throat, acid and whisky burning the back of his mouth. The screen door slammed against the house, then he was skidding to his knees and leaning over, retching into the dirt. His stomach clenched painfully as he brought up a thin stream of whisky and whatever remained in his stomach from the night before.

“Oh, Clay…” Matthew’s hand landed on his back, pausing when Clayton shuddered at the touch before moving in slow, sweeping circles. The taste in his mouth made the nausea twist sharply, and he vomited again, huddling over his broken arm and trying to keep the mess on the ground and not all over himself. His head throbbed, blood pounding through his temples and into the front of his skull, pain settling behind his eyes.

Matthew was quiet, hand moving slowly as Clayton dry heaved, nothing left in his stomach but bile. He retched until he couldn’t, until his throat was burning from the acid. Then he spat, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and pushed himself to standing, ignoring Matthew’s arm on his back, and his quiet noise of concern. His vision spotted, head rushing at the sudden change in position. Before his legs could buckle and send him sprawling back to the earth Matthew was there, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him back against Matthew’s chest.

“Whoa, hey, take it slow –“

Matthew held him steady until Clayton’s head cleared enough that he could shove his shaky legs underneath him and stumble away, breaking contact. It was too _much_, too close and too goddamn soft, when he was all cracked edges and splintered shards of glass. Matthew pulled away, and when Clayton pivoted to see him Matthew was frowning, brows pinched in concern.

“I’m fine.” His lips were numb, and black spots still edged at his vision, but he took a step back, ignoring the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with physical pain. He knew that he wasn’t alright. He hadn’t been for days. But there was only so much vulnerability he could take, only so much he was willing to say and admit before it felt like he was being scraped raw, skin too thin to hold everything inside.

“Alright,” Matthew said slowly. “I’ll just pretend you ain’t lyin’ through your teeth and let that slide.” He stepped closer, hands held out as though to catch Clayton if he fell. “Why don’t you come sit on the porch before you fall over.”

He guided Clayton back carefully, watching with worried eyes as Clayton stumbled backwards, thudding to a seat on the porch. Clayton gripped the edge of the porch tightly, fingers aching, and let out one strangled breath, then another. His mouth was sour, and he still felt nauseous and so fucking _off_.

Matthew crouched in front of him carefully. He scanned Clayton carefully, as though looking for injuries, for some signs of whatever was wrong. “You wanna talk about your dream?”

Clayton’s stomach flipped. The sense of wrongness still lingered, the despair that told him that he was nothing. He felt thrown back in time, stuck spiraling through the feelings that kept whelming up over and over and over. Looking away, he let go of the porch, shoved a shaky hand through his hair. “No.”

Matthew nodded slowly. “Alright.” He didn’t continue, seeming stuck, at a loss for words. Clayton didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t know what to say either, if he were on the other side. And Matthew was watching him so closely, crouched like he was ready to catch Clayton if need be.

“You don’t need to watch me like that,” Clayton muttered, drawing into himself.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to fall.”

Matthew shook his head and stayed where he was, crouched in front of Clayton, hands hanging loosely in front of him. “I think we both know that you’re liable to push yourself until you do. And I don’t think you can take another hit right now, even if it’s just from the ground.”

Clayton closed his eyes, dug his nails into his palm. “I don’t need you to – to –“

“To care for you? To watch out for you? To stop you from gettin’ hurt?” Matthew’s voice was dangerously soft. “What, Clay? What don’t you need me to do.”

Clayton flattened his own features, shoving everything deep, where it couldn’t touch him. “I can take care of myself.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t. Didn’t we have this exact fucking same argument yesterday?” frustration leaked into Matthew’s voice, and Clayton couldn’t blame him. He knew exactly what a pain in the ass he was being.

_Fucking ungrateful son of a bitch that I am._

Calloused fingers touched his, taking his hand lightly between them. Clayton held himself tighter, feeling brittle, ready to shatter if Matthew touched him wrong. Matthew kept his hold light, just the smallest bit of contact, the reminder that he was here.

“Clay. Darlin’. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I ain’t takin’ care of you because I think I _have_ to. There ain’t no obligation here. It’s because I _want_ to. You’re worth takin’ care of.”

“Why?” Clayton asked before he could bite the words back, swallow them like all the others he never said aloud. “Why the fuck – why the fuck am I worth it, any of it?”

When he opened his eyes Matthew was staring at him, that sad look on his face that Clayton had seen before. Clayton felt his mouth twist in shame, and he looked away, pulling his hand back. Matthew let him go, but rested his hand on Clayton’s knee, a warm line through his trousers.

“Would you take care of me? If it were me, if I were the one. Would you take care of me?”

“Of fucking _course_ I would –“

Matthew’s hand squeezed his knee lightly, comfortingly. **“**Then why do you think I wouldn’t want to do the same? Why shouldn’t I take care of you?”

Bile rose in his throat. _Gonna make me say it, huh._

“I ain’t a good man,” he said numbly, “not like you. I don’t… don’t deserve it.” The memory of the dream, of his hand lashing out at Matthew’s face, flashed back in. “I even – fuck, I almost _hit_ you –“

_Why you like me, why you care for me, why you want to put so much fuckin’ effort into someone who ain’t given you nothin’ but grief. Look at me, can’t even have a breakdown without fuckin’ hurtin’ the best thing in my life._

A hand cupped his cheek, mindful of the bruising still smeared across his skin. Matthew waited until he made eye contact before speaking, his voice careful and quiet.

“You didn’t hurt me. And you don’t get to decide what you do and don’t deserve, Clay. That ain’t your call to make.”

Clayton closed his eyes. Matthew’s sincerity was too much, too close, too real.

“You think I ain’t done things too?” Matthew continued. “I wasn’t always a preacher. I’ve… I’ve done some things I ain’t proud of, hurt people. I’ve had to make amends.”

“I know,” Clayton said tiredly. “I’ve seen your bounty poster. That doesn’t change it, though.”

A beat passed, then another. “You saw my bounty poster?”

“Yeah. Long time ago. I burned it.”

Matthew’s thumb smoothed across his cheek. “Then why do you think that I deserve more care than you? I wasn’t framed, Clay. I did what they said I did.”

_That don’t change anything. You’re still good, better than I could ever hope to be._

Clayton shook his head. The words from the dream rang through his head. _Murderer._ “So did I. Maybe not that one, but so many other fucking things. And you, you made your amends. You’re a goddamn _preacher_, and I’m… I’m just a fuckin’ gun for hire. I ain’t helpin’ people, ain’t makin’ the world better. I ain’t cleaned the blood off my hands like you, I just make more. Sometimes I don’t even know why –“ he clammed up, shutting down the words before they could escape. The dream flashed through his mind, Matthew and Miriam walking away, Aly and Arabella ignoring his plight.

“Don’t even know what?” Matthew’s thumb stroked his cheek again. “C’mon, darlin’, what were you gonna say.”

Clayton exhaled shakily. “Why you came for me. I wasn’t expectin’ it.”

“Why –“ Matthew stopped and pulled his hand back. “What?”

Clayton opened his eyes and took in the startled anger on Matthew’s face. He shied back, curling in on himself.

“Did you really think we would just _leave_ you there? That we would – what, that we just wouldn’t give a damn? Or wouldn’t even fucking notice you were gone? Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you said a few days ago – you didn’t think we would notice you being gone. Is that it?”

Clayton looked away. He swallowed. _Fuck._ “Not anymore.”

A beat passed. “Oh, Clay.”

And there it was, the resignation that he’d been waiting for.

Matthew’s knees creaked as he pushed himself to standing. He held out a hand, huffing softly when Clayton looked at it in confusion. “Come on, let’s go inside. This is gonna be a longer conversation than I want to have kneeling in the dirt where the neighbours can spy on us.”

Clayton moved slowly, taking his hand with tentative fingers. Matthew didn’t pull him up, just held his hand while Clayton clambered slowly to his feet, keeping him anchored and stable. It was kind, and surprisingly aware of his injured shoulder. Some of the tangled knot of emotions sitting in his chest broke apart, softening at the touch.

Matthew curled an arm carefully around his shoulders and pulled Clayton against him, pressing a kiss to his temple. In a moment, half of the uncertainty drained away, Matthew’s promise from the day before settling over him. _He said he wanted this, wanted you. He ain’t a liar._ Clayton closed his eyes, breathed, let the moment linger before he pulled away.

“Come on,” Matthew said softly. “Let’s go in.”

* * *

Matthew led him inside, hands still wrapped together. Through the kitchen and into the sitting room, then he pressed Clayton carefully into the sofa. Clayton found himself going quietly, exhaustion and pain muting the need to fight the caretaking. He ignored the part of himself that was craving it, that found so much reassurance in Matthew’s soft hand wrapped around his, in Matthew’s attendance to his needs. 

_You can’t keep pushin’ him away. Not now, not after all he’s done for you. _

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” Matthew said, keeping his voice even and low. “I’m guessing’ food ain’t gonna happen right now?”

Clayton shook his head wordlessly, biting his tongue to quiet the bile that threatened to rise at the thought.

Matthew nodded, then squeezed his hand. “Stay here a moment, alright?”

Clayton nodded, and then he was gone, stepping carefully into the kitchen, glancing back at Clayton before he disappeared.

_Wonder if he’s worried that I’m gonna run._ Clayton nearly laughed at the thought. _As if I’d leave this behind without bein’ forced to go. As if I’ve got anybody else that wants me._

* * *

It felt like barely any time had passed when Matthew returned, two steaming mugs held in his hands. The sofa creaked under his weight as he settled beside Clayton, then passed one of the mugs over. Clayton shivered and held it close to his chest.

_Damn. Didn’t realize how cold I was. _

“Willow bark, with honey.”

“Thank you.”

Matthew turned sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked up under him, so that he could face Clayton properly. Clayton tried to do the same, wedging himself into the corner of the sofa and balancing his tea on one knee. The bruises on his back and ribs twinged in protest.

Matthew just looked at him, cocking his head to the side in contemplation.

“What is it going to take to convince you that you’re important to us?”

Clayton looked away. “I believe you.”

Matthew’s knee grazed his. “Do you? Because you seem to be under the impression that all this -” he waved his hand about, indicating himself and Clayton, then the bandages wrapped around Clayton’s body, “- means nothing.”

Clayton shook his head, biting his lip. _Fuck. Ain’t never wanted him to think that._ “It doesn’t mean nothing. It means so damn much.”

“Then wanna tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

Clayton stared at his tea. Words weren’t his thing, never had been. To his credit Matthew waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts, while he tried to put it into words.

“The drea–“ he cleared his throat and started again. He had to be honest. “The nightmare. It was… it was bad. Bill, and Mac, and you were –“ he swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise and tried again. “I feel – I feel stuck, sometimes. When I wake up like that. I’m sorry for… for lashin’ out.”

Matthew nodded. “And you got stuck… before we got you back?”

“I guess.” Clayton shrugged, stopping half-way through the motion as pain tugged at his shoulders, trying not to wince. “I ain’t never thought of it like that before.” He took a sip of his tea to give himself time. Matthew waited patiently, sipping his own tea. “When I… when I got taken. I didn’t think you’d come for me. Ain’t never had nobody give two shits enough to do that.” He smiled half-heartedly. “Been on my own for a long time, y’know? Ran when I was sixteen, and ain’t nobody come after me then so…” he trailed off.

“So why would we come after you now,” Matthew finished softly.

Clayton nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sixteen, Jesus. Your parents didn’t try and find you?”

Clayton snorted. “Nah. They probably thought it was a blessin’, me bein’ gone.” Matthew’s hand landed on his knee, a solid weight, a sign of reassurance. “So I… I didn’t think you’d come for me. I ain’t important, not like the others, not like you. But you did anyway. And you keep comin’ for me, keep makin’ sure I’m alright, keep takin’ care of me.”

“And I always will, so long as I’m able, and so long as you want me to.”

Clayton’s eyes flicked up to Matthew’s face. There was no dishonesty there, only the quiet commitment that he’d come to trust in. _Believe him. Stop pushin’ him away._ “I know. I believe you.”

Matthew smiled softly. “Good.” His hand squeezed Clayton’s knee. “You’re just as important as I am, darlin’. Or any of the others. I won’t ever be glad for the bounty on your head. But you bein’ here, with us, is a gift. A blessing. Alright?”

Clayton exhaled. _Come on, Clay. Believe him._ “Alright.” He leaned over and placed his mug carefully on the floor, ignoring the pinching in his ribs. Then he carefully set his hand on Matthew’s. Matthew turned his hand over, letting their palms slip together. For some reason, it made him feel safe, his hand securely held in Matthew’s. “Thank you for puttin’ up with my bullshit.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’.” Matthew winked. “Don’t worry, it ain’t gonna be long before you’ll be puttin’ up with mine too.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Please do.”

Matthew’s stomach grumbled loud enough for him to hear. Clayton grinned at the sheepish look Matthew gave him.

“Go get yourself breakfast, Matty. I’ll be alright for a few minutes.”

Matthew scanned his face. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

* * *

Clayton sat and drank his tea while Matthew ate, the soft noises coming from the kitchen and the tea in his hand settling him even further. He’d thought about joining Matthew, about sitting and talking to him while the other man ate, but he wasn’t sure if the smell and sight food would make him nauseous again. And besides, he thought they both could use a minute alone. They’d been glued at the hip for nearly a week, and a conversation like that always left Clayton seeking solitude to try and wrap his head around what had happened.

Not that he’d had conversations like that often, since he’d been on the run. But lately, it seemed, they’d been coming more and more. Matthew and the others seemed determined to drill his own worth into his skull, and it was getting hard to ignore it.

_Goddamn nice people, of course they’d wanna keep havin’ heart to hearts. _

He couldn’t blame them. Something about them, about _Matthew,_ made it easier to talk, easier to trust that he would be listened to. It was a good feeling.

Matthew appeared at the doorway, drying his hands on a towel.

“Come on, darlin’. Shall we clean those wrists of yours?”

* * *

“I was wonderin’ how you’d feel about a proper bath today,” Matthew asked as he piled the iodine bottle and fresh bandages on the kitchen table. “Since we ain’t really made time yet since we got back.”

Clayton nearly groaned out loud. _A bath. God that sounds nice. _“God, yes. That sounds wonderful.”

Matthew grinned. “Why don’t we do your wrists and such after, then? That way we ain’t gonna risk getting fresh bandages wet.”

“Yeah, alright. You want help haulin’ water?”

Matthew arched an eyebrow. “And how, pray tell, are you gonna haul water?” Matthew laughed at the scowl that broke out on Clayton’s face. “Don’t look so put out. I can get the water just fine. You can haul water for us once you ain’t got a shoulder wound and a broken arm, alright?”

He sidled closer and put one big hand carefully on Clayton’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Just sit tight, alright? We’ll have you a bath in no time.”

Clayton tilted his head up, pressing a kiss to the underside of Matthew’s jaw. Matthew’s smile nearly caught him off guard, close and soft and so goddamn lovely.

“Thanks, Matty,” he said softly. “I appreciate it.”

Matthew carded a hand through Clayton’s hair, then kissed him gently. “Of course, darlin’.”

* * *

The bath was steaming in the centre of the kitchen as Clayton worked his buttons awkwardly with one hand. The door creaking drew his attention to Matthew, who slipped into the kitchen with towels and soap in hand.

“Here, let me.”

Thick fingers nudged his hand aside, taking over the task.

“You’re gonna have to be careful, don’t want to be gettin’ the bandages on your broken arm wet.”

Clayton hummed. “I think Arabella would kill me if it happened. You… you want to stay and help me?”

Matthew’s eyes flicked up from his buttons to his face. “I’m happy to if you’d like that, darlin’.”

“I’ll probably need the help,” Clayton admitted reluctantly, trying to remind himself to be honest. “Ain’t movin’ too easily right now.”

“Understandably, you’re one big bruise.”

“You ain’t wrong.”

Matthew helped him strip, hands slow and easy on Clayton’s skin. Then he held out an arm for Clayton to grab as he stepped into the tub, keeping him steady. Clayton sunk into the hot water, sighing in pleasure. He let go of Matthew’s arm once he was seated, resting his splinted arm carefully on the edge of the tub.

“Good?” Matthew moved behind him, gathering soap and the washcloth, then knelt behind the tub.

Clayton hummed, slumping back against the wooden wall, curling his toes in the water. He could already feel the water soothing the throb that echoed through his ribs, across his back, and down his legs. “Yeah, it’s real good.”

Matthew’s hands landed on his face, tilting his head back until Matthew could smudge a kiss to his forehead upside down. “You wanna soak for a bit before we wash you up?”

Clayton closed his eyes and leaned into Matthew’s hands, considering the question. The water was so goddamn _warm_, and it would be easy to drift here, to let himself rest. But he didn’t want to waste the hot water, and he knew that Matthew needed to bathe after him.

“Should probably wash up. Gotta save some hot water for you.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be alright.”

Clayton frowned and opened his eyes. “I get to worry about you so long as you get to worry about me, Matty.”

Matthew flushed, pink spreading across the bridge of his nose. “Alright. If you insist. It’s just a bath, though, ain’t important.”

“Still, ain’t right that only my comfort gets thought of,” Clayton argued. “I ain’t alright with that.”

“It’s just because you’re injured –“

Clayton shook his head. “Somethin’ tells me you’re the sort of man to give up your own comforts for others.” He pulled himself upright, grimacing at the twinge in his shoulder and ribs as he did so. “C’mon, lets get it over with. Wanna hand me the soap?”

Matthew’s hand on his ribs steadied him. “Let me?”

“Yeah, alright,” he said softly.

Matthew’s hands were careful as they washed him, soaping a worn washcloth and scrubbing gently at his skin. He was thorough in a way that shouldn’t have been surprising, soft cloth and softer hands leaving no part of him untouched. It was intimate, and so goddamn human, Matthew’s hands broad and warm as they passed over his back, curled around his ribs, smoothed over his hip. The clean scent of soap lingered in the air, making everything feel fresh, feel new.

Clayton found himself falling silent, watching with wide eyes as Matthew passed the washcloth gently over the bruises and scrapes littering his skin. Down his thigh, over one knee, big hand curling around Clayton’s calf. Then the washcloth was passing over his aching ankle, down to the arch of his foot, curling around his toes one by one. 

The tenderness of it all nearly took him apart. The gentle touches were still so _new_, and while it shouldn’t have been surprising that Matthew would be tender and soft in this (as with so many other things), it still hit him in the chest, stripping him bare in a way he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. It was chaste, and that somehow made it all the more intimate, all the more vulnerable. That Matthew would want to do this, to take care of him with no reciprocation close at hand…

Clayton’s breath hitched. Matthew looked up at him, scanning Clayton’s face for some sign of hurt, some sign that he wasn’t ok.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you?”

Clayton brushed his fingers along the bare skin of Matthew’s arm, just above where it sunk into the water. “Always.”

* * *

When Matthew was done, he’d moved back behind Clayton, set his big hands on Clayton’s shoulders. He’d helped Clayton move forward, then guided his head back, pouring cup over cup of warm water over his hair, one hand curled around the back of his neck to keep him above water. And as Clayton had closed his eyes, felt those strong fingers wash the filth from his hair, he’d wondered if he’d ever get so lucky again in his life.

_I think I might be fallin’ in love with you, Matthew Mason. _

* * *

Matthew helped Clayton to standing, keeping him steady while he clambered out of the tub. When he wrapped a soft towel around his shoulders and started drying him off, careful as ever, Clayton couldn’t help but touch his jaw with one dripping wet hand, bringing him in to a kiss.

“Thank you,” he said, as the kiss ended.

Matthew smiled, brushed the wet hair back from his face. “You’re welcome, darlin’.”

* * *

“Did you want to stay while I bathe? Keep me company.”

“Sure.” Clayton paused, touching Matthew’s hand where it wound a fresh bandage around his wrist. “I’d love to stay, but I… I don’t think I’ll be up for anything more today. Sorry.”

Matthew smiled and stretched up to kiss him softly. “I know. That wasn’t my intent anyway, I just like spendin’ time with you. And don’t apologize, that ain’t nothin’ you ever need to be sorry for.”

“You’re too good to me,” Clayton said softly. The warmth that had settled over him brightened, curling in his chest like embers.

“Darlin’, that ain’t possible.”

* * *

After Matthew had bathed and they were both dressed in clean clothing, they’d cleaned the kitchen then settled on the sofa. Clayton found himself basking in the spot of sun curling across it, warm and content. The anxiety and fear and goddamn _stuckness_ of the morning had passed, washed away with the bath like it was so much dirt. Even the soreness of his body felt muted. Matthew seemed more at ease too, relaxed into the quiet calm that they’d built.

Matthew’s arm settled along the back of the sofa, and Clayton let himself lean into it, let himself rest his head on Matthew’s shoulder. The warmth that came from Matthew’s body and the scent of soap on his skin was better than any goddamn calming tea that Miriam could force into him.

Matthew’s lips pressed against his head. “Did you wanna take a nap for a bit? You look pretty out of it.”

Clayton shook his head. “Sleepin’ ain’t goin’ so well today, think I’ll pass.”

He could feel Matthew’s frown without even looking. “You’re gonna have to sleep sometime, sweetheart.”

“Not if I can help it.” He shifted, looking up at Matthew and grinning at the look on the other man’s face. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna try and swear off sleep.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to try,” Matthew muttered. “Stubborn man that you are.”

“Hey, I ain’t _that_ stubborn.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Just this mornin’ you told me you were fine not ten seconds after throwing up. And here you are again, refusin’ to sleep.”

Clayton looked away. He swallowed down the voice that said not to let his vulnerabilities show, that said that he should keep everything in. _He ain’t gonna judge you, Clay. He already knows anyhow._ “Fine, you’ve got a point. I’ll sleep eventually, I just… I feel good now, and I don’t want to sleep and have another goddamn nightmare.”

Matthew’s arm tightened briefly, a gentle squeeze. “I can understand that. I’m sorry the dreams came back. Havin’ a bad day yesterday probably didn’t help.”

Clayton sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s just goddamn annoying. I thought they were gone.”

Matthew tucked Clayton closer into his side, being careful of his wounds. Clayton closed his eyes, basking in the warmth, quelling the squirm in his stomach.

_He says you deserve this. So listen to him._

“They won’t last forever,” Matthew said. “Someday, everything’s gonna be right as rain.”

* * *

They were two chapters further in Treasure Island when Clayton’s stomach rumbled. Flushing at the grin Matthew gave him, he poked the other man lightly with his elbow. “Ain’t like your stomach’s a quiet one.”

Matthew laughed. “You got me there. Should we have some lunch?”

Clayton found himself nodding, surprisingly ready for something to eat. He’d expected to have the ever-so-familiar bile rise at the idea, but it never came.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Matthew beamed and handed him the book. Clayton looked at the book in his hand, then back at Matthew, one eyebrow raised.

“You want to read to me while I cook us up some lunch? Keep us going for another chapter or so? It’d be nice to hear your voice.”

Clayton flushed and put the book down. _Fuck._ “Oh. I… I ain’t much for reading aloud.”

“Oh.” Matthew sounded disappointed, and Clayton wanted to smack himself. “I just thought, because you were reading with Arabella yesterday… never mind. It’s ok. Keep me company then?”

Clayton caught his hand as Matthew stood. The other man looked at him, and Clayton shook his head. “It ain’t like that, Matthew. Just…” he sucked in a breath, then ducked his head and forced himself to speak. “I ain’t good at it. Reading. Arabella was helping me, teachin’ me the words I don’t know.” He knew he was beet red by now, face warm and hands clammy. He let go of Matthew’s hands and tried to stop himself from bristling in self-defence. He hadn’t been ashamed of his reading in _years_, but somehow, these folks with all their book-learning… they made him wish he was better at it.

“Oh!” Matthew sat back down, then squeezed his hand. “Sweetheart, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hell,” he laughed. “I know lots of folks that can’t read well.”

Clayton felt the urge to clarify, to let Matthew know he wasn’t totally unlearned. “I can read, just… don’t get a lot of chance to practice. Didn’t make it through much schoolin’ neither.”

Matthew nodded. “I’m sorry you haven’t had more opportunities to read, Clay. And it’s okay if you can’t read well, I’d still love to hear you read. You’ve got a lovely voice.”

Clayton flushed deeper. “You don’t need to butter me up to make me feel better,” he muttered.

Matthew shook his head. “I’m not. I mean it, I love your voice.”

He pressed a kiss to Clayton’s cheek, and Clayton finally looked at him. Matthew smiled, and tucked a strand of hair behind Clayton’s ear. It made his stomach swoop the same way it had that morning, the same way it always did when Matthew showed him such simple affection. _I haven’t had someone touch me so much in years. _

Clayton closed the gap between them, lips meeting Matthew’s in a soft kiss. Matthew hummed and moved with him, lips parting beneath his. The thought from before, that maybe this could be love, flooded back into his mind.

_He just makes it too goddamn easy. _

* * *

Lunch was a simple affair. Beans warmed on the stove, bread that was only a touch stale, thick slabs of butter and a drizzle of honey smeared on top of it. It was good, soft on his throat, and washed down easily with the tea Matthew had made. The tea was just a touch too sweet, and it made Clayton wonder if that was something he would have to get used to. Sweetness seemed to be the way, with Matthew.

_I can live with that. _

Matthew talked to him over his shoulder as he was cooking and again as he was washing up, telling Clayton about the sermon he was planning, about the parishioners he needed to visit this week. Clayton snorted when Matthew asked him if he wanted to join.

“I don’t think I’m quite the comfortin’ sort for your widows and orphans, Matthew.”

Matthew smiled at him. “No, but you might be for the ladies at the Bella Union or the Gem when I make my rounds.”

“Oh. Right.” He shrugged. “Sure, I can come with, if you like. Or I can go bug Miriam, I’m sure she’ll be glad for any excuse to mother me.”

Matthew laughed. “You’re not wrong. You can always stay here too, if you’re comfortable with it.”

“We’ll see.” He knew he’d have to eventually, but the previous day was still too fresh in his mind to say yes. It wouldn’t last forever, this difficulty with being alone; he wouldn’t let it.

Matthew looked back at him, face softening. “Alright, love.”

Clayton’s heart surged in his chest. That was the second time Matthew had called him that; he wondered if the other man even noticed, and if he meant it in the way that Clayton hoped and feared he did. He couldn’t imagine being so lucky, to have Matthew be falling in love with him, too.

_Luckier than I’ve been in fifteen goddamn years. Maybe my luck is finally changin’._

“You ok?” Matthew had turned fully while Clayton was off in his own thoughts, and was watching him closely.

Clayton felt his mouth curl into a smile, saw Matthew’s shoulders in response. “Yeah, darlin’. I’m doin’ just fine.”

* * *

Two hours later found Clayton glaring at his duster and contemplating whether or not it was even worth wearing. It was heavy on his shoulders, and with the way they ached… he hadn’t even put a proper suitcoat on, not wanting to deal with trying to fit it over his arm or have it dangling foolishly off one shoulder. 

Matthew’s hand landed lightly on the small of his back. “Pray tell, what did your duster do to deserve such a look?”

Clayton scowled. “It’s heavy, and I don’t really want the weight on my shoulders.”

“It’s alright to leave it. I think people will understand if you’re a bit dressed down.” Matthew pressed a kiss to his hair. “You sure you’re up for this? You ain’t hurtin’ too bad?”

Clayton nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yeah. It ain’t far anyhow, and it’ll be nice to be out for a bit. ‘Sides, I think Miriam might knock down the door if she doesn’t see me at least once a day while I’m healin’.”

“… yes, you’re probably right.” Matthew shook his head. “I count my blessings daily that she’s our friend and not our enemy.”

“She is a force to be reckoned with.” He left the duster where it was, but picked up his hat and settled it on his head. “Come on, lets go.”

One of the many nice things about staying with Matthew was how close to the church it was. Not that Clayton necessarily considered being close to the church a positive thing; but it did make the walk there shorter, which was nice when one still felt the ever-present bone-deep exhaustion that healing from injuries brought. It was a beautiful day, and while the sun made his head throb, it also cleared away some of the cobwebs in his brain, reminding him that he was here, he was alive, and life would go on. Life _was_ going on, things slowly but surely returning to normal in a way that he couldn’t deny brought relief. 

It was Saturday, after all, and that meant gathering at the church to prepare it for the Sunday service. They’d all started meeting here in the afternoons some few months or so ago, by some unspoken agreement. Matthew had been commiserating about the work he found himself doing every week, the little repairs that still needed doing and seemed constant. And so Clayton had wandered through the doors the next day, to Matthew’s astonishment. Ten minutes later Arabella was there, saying that it was a good excuse to be away from her husband. Next came Miriam, and eventually Aly wandered in too, looking distinctly uncomfortable but determined to help. Clayton understood the feeling; the church wasn’t his favourite place to be. He knew he wouldn’t even be stepping foot in it if it weren’t for Matthew. 

The sudden awareness of how much being here with Matthew had changed him settled over him like a soft blanket. With all of them, really; they were good together, cohesive in a way that Clayton hadn’t felt in a long, long time. _Maybe this is good for you. Maybe it’s good for them, too. Think we’re all in need of a family. _

They approached the church to find Aly already there, sprawled on the steps with a cigarette. Clayton’s fingers itched at the sight of it.

“Howdy Reverend, Clayton,” Aly said, nodding hello. “Miriam and Arabella are already inside. Miriam’s brought flowers for the pulpit, and maybe for some of the pews.”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” Matthew said. “We ain’t had flowers in the church in a while.”

“Yeah, it’ll be real nice.” Clayton nodded at Aly’s cigarette. “Mind if I bum a smoke?”

Aly grinned. “Not at all. Rev, you want in on this?”

Matthew coughed politely. “No, I think I’ll pass.” He touched Clayton’s elbow, giving him a soft look, then started up the steps. “I’ll see you both whenever you mosey on in.”

“We won’t be too long,” Clayton promised. “That one pew still needs fixin’.”

Aly laughed. “Clay, if you think Miriam’s gonna let you do anything other than arrange flowers with that arm and that shoulder, you got another thing comin’.”

Matthew’s laughter disappeared as the doors swung shut behind him. Clayton sighed, settling gingerly on the steps beside Aly. The exhaustion surged, and he closed his eyes, breathing through the pain and heaviness that still wasn’t gone, no matter how much gentleness the day had carried.

When he opened his eyes Aly was openly studying him. The concern was there, but muted, less than Matthew’s blatant worry. He suspected he might be seeing it for a while from all of his people. The thought came with a quiet sort of acceptance, an understanding that maybe their concern wasn’t such a bad thing.

_That’s what family does, after all. Good ones, at least. _

Aly held out the cigarette silently. Clayton took it with a nod of thanks, then set it between his lips and took a draw. The relief it brought was almost instantaneous, and he found himself relaxing, easing into the quiet and the calm.

_Wonder if Aly’d roll me a few so I can still smoke when I need to. _

They sat in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between them, watching people pass by on the thoroughfare. It was a busy day, with sellers hawking their wares, and folks of all sorts wandering about, looking to spend their hard-earned gold.

A woman waved from across the way. Aly waved back, and she started across the thoroughfare, basket in hand.

_Celine. _

“Mister Sharpe, I’m so glad to see you’re back,” she said as she approached. “I heard that there’d been a bit of nasty business.” She looked him up and down. “Are you alright? You’re a bit more beat up than the last time I saw you.”

“Yes ma’am, doin’ just fine.” He flushed at the raised eyebrow she gave him, clearly not believing what he said. “Well, on the mend, anyhow.”

Celine smiled. “That’s a relief. I’ll be sure to let the other gals know – we heard from Miss Miriam that they’d gotten you back, but it ain’t the same as seein’ that you’re alright with our own two eyes. We were worried about you.”

Clayton was taken aback by her words. _They were worried about me?_ “Oh. Uh, thank you kindly, miss. You didn’t need to be worried ‘bout me.”

“Nonsense.” Her smile turned sly and uncomfortably knowing. “Now you be sure to come visit us when the Reverend stops by, you hear? I heard you’re staying with him, and the other girls would love to see that you’re alright with their own two eyes.”

Clayton fought to keep the flush from spreading, but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. _Does every goddamn person in this town know about us?_ “Uh, yes ma’am, I can do that.”

“Good. Joanie’ll want to see you.” Celine winked at Aly. “You too, Mister Fogg, be sure to stop by some day soon, y’hear? Maybe not with the Reverend, though.”

Aly laughed. “I’ll be sure to make my way over in the next few days.”

“See that you do.” Celine nodded at Clayton, then at Aly. “Say hello to the others for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Aly said. “You have yourself a lovely day, Miss Celine.”

She winked, and then she was gone, disappearing down the thoroughfare. Clayton stared after her, flabbergasted.

Aly plucked the cigarette from Clayton’s fingertips and took one last drag, then stubbed it out in the dirt. “Don’t look so surprised, Clay. People here – they know us. And like us, for the most part.” He stood and stretched, then nodded towards the church. “Shall we?”

Clayton stood and followed without a word.

* * *

The sanctuary was bright with filtered sunlight, making it almost beautiful. It was no longer the burnt and oil-filled thing that it had been months ago when they’d first met; Matthew had done good work. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was whole, and they’d been gradually smoothing over the rough edges and making it better, week by week by week.

It was hard not to find some sort of meaning in that, some metaphor for his own life. Being here, in this place, with these people… it was wearing his rough edges down in the very best of ways. His thought from days past, the one that kept coming back, echoed again.

_How’d I get so damn lucky?_

Miriam beamed from her spot near the pulpit, waving with one hand, the other holding a fistful of wildflowers. Matthew was standing beside her, rifling through the pages in his notebook. Clayton could spy a book lying open on the little table they were working on. Arabella was weaving her way through the pews, a stack of hymnals in her arms. 

“Hey Clay,” Arabella said. “Aly, come take some of these, put your hands to good use.”

“Clayton, would you be a dear and help me arrange some flowers?” Miriam called. “I could use a hand.”

Aly snorted and clapped him gently on the back. “Told you.”

Clayton flipped him off and started for the pulpit, Aly’s laugh floating behind him. He sidled up to the table beside Matthew, looking at the flowers strewn across the table, bunches of gold and purple and pink. “Hey, Miriam. Matty.” He leaned into Matthew’s space, looking at his papers. The book, he could see now, was a hymnal. “Gettin’ your sermon in order?”

“Hey, darlin’,” Matthew’s hand settled at the small of his back, and he leaned down and kissed Clayton’s cheek absent-mindedly. “Yeah, forgot that I needed to pick the hymns for tomorrow.” 

Clayton flushed at the kiss, looking up to see who had noticed. Miriam was staring pointedly down at the flowers on the table, clearly trying to hide a smile. When he glanced behind himself he found that Arabella and Aly had no such compunctions. They were both staring at him, wide grins curling across their faces.

“That’s it, Rev! Kiss that boy!” Aly called. Matthew jumped, staring behind him, then at Clay. Arabella let out a piercing wolf-whistle, and they both started laughing as Clayton waved a rude gesture behind him. A slow flush spread across Matthew’s face, followed by a sheepish look as he realized what had happened. It was endearing in that soft sort of way, and Clayton couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Fuck off, Aloysius,” he called, turning away from Matthew. 

“Aww, don’t be like that, Clay. Everybody with two eyes and half a braincell knows that you and the Reverend are sweethearts.”

“Don’t worry,” Arabella called. “Most people in this town don’t got half a braincell, so you ain’t got to worry.”

Clayton rolled his eyes. But Matthew was still watching him, carefully gauging Clayton’s reaction to the whole thing. So he did the only thing that made sense; he turned back to face him, reached up and curled his hand around the back of Matthew’s neck, then pulled him down and into a kiss; short and soft, sweet in the way that most things were with Matthew. Matthew smiled into it, relaxing under Clayton’s hand, his own on Clayton’s back pressing them closer together. Arabella whistled, and he could _feel_ Miriam’s delight from across the table, but that was alright. He wasn’t worried, anymore; not about them, these people who were his.

And as they parted, as he turned back to the flowers, and Matthew turned back to his hymnal; as Arabella and Aly started through the pews once more, bickering about something; as Miriam smiled at him, her joy shining through clear as day; he knew that everything would be alright.

_Maybe this is what bein’ whole feels like. _

“You alright?” Matthew asked quietly, in a moment when Miriam’s attention shifted away.

Clayton smiled, and pressed his shoulder against Matthew’s, reassurance that he was here, that this was real, that this was good.

_Better than good._

“Yeah, darlin’. I’m right as rain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah I just love these soft lads so much y'all! Stay tuned for the epilogue! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated if you feel like leaving them <3 I am also on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!!


	10. Epilogue: The Next Seven Weeks (And The Rest Of Their Lives)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh y'all THIS IS IT. It's finally done!! And look, the epilogue only took a month and a half, rather than my usual 3-6 months!! 
> 
> The epilogue takes on a pretty different format - it's seven snippets, one for each of the next seven weeks. For those wishing to avoid smut, there's smut in the section for "the fourth week" - just skip to the next line break and you'll miss it. There are no other warnings that I can think of - a few mentions of past trauma responses, anxiety and the like, but nothing big. Just a lot of softness. 
> 
> I thought this would only be a few thousand words, but instead, in true tragicallynerdy fashion, it's nearly 7,000. So much for a short epilogue XD

* * *

The First Week

* * *

“Fuck,” Clayton muttered, rolling his shoulders. They were _screaming_, tight and sore from the awful combination of the still-healing shoulder wound and the sling he’d had to wear near-constantly as of late. The pain had started radiating up into his neck and down his arms, and he was thoroughly unimpressed. 

“You alright?”

Matthew was frowning when Clayton looked at him. He nodded, hoping that was reassurance enough. “Just my shoulders, they’re sore as fuck.”

“Want me to massage them a bit for you? It might help to get some of the knots out.”

He hesitated. He’d been trying, for the last week, to get better about saying how he was, and what he needed. Matthew, for his part, kept offering, and his happiness and approval when Clayton accepted help made it easier. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Matthew closed his bible, then stood, stretching as he did so. “Would you rather right here, or on the bed?”

“Uh… whatever’s easier? I don’t… really have a preference.” He couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually offered him something like a _massage_.

_If it’s ever happened at all. _

Matthew hummed, then beckoned him towards the bedroom. “Bed, then.” He grinned cheekily. “That way if you fall asleep I won’t have to carry you to it.”

Clayton rolled his eyes but stood to follow. “I doubt you’d have a problem with that.”

Matthew laughed. “I never said I would. Somehow I get the feelin’ that you wouldn’t be a fan of it, though.”

“You ain’t wrong. Although…” he winked at Matthew. “I ain’t opposed to bein’ picked up in the right situation, if you get my meanin’.”

Matthew’s gaze went dark, and he stepped closer, laying one heavy hand on Clayton’s hip. “Is that so?”

Clayton smiled, slow and suggestively. “Mhm.” He met Matthew’s kiss, melting into his hands and mouth. Matthew kept it somehow both slow and heated, full of promise of things to come.

“Someday,” Matthew said, voice deep and husky,” when you ain’t still healin’, we’re goin’ to have to test that out.”

“I can’t hardly wait.”

Matthew patted his hip, then drew away. “Not today, though. Come on, darlin’, let’s get you on the bed before I undress you for a whole other reason.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.” Clayton took off his sling carefully, then started on his shirt buttons with one hand. Matthew nudged his hand aside, as he always did lately, leaning in for a kiss as he worked them open.

“Maybe later, darlin’. I want to get those kinks out of your shoulders first.”

Clayton nodded, knowing that it was the wiser choice. He was sore as fuck, and any relief would be a godsend. So he stripped carefully out of his shirt, then lay face-down on the bed, arms placed carefully at his sides. Matthew hummed and smoothed one broad, warm hand down his back, then up over his shoulders. The tension bled from his spine.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

The first dig of Matthew’s fingers into his muscles had him gritting his teeth at the pain, sore muscles protesting any contact. Within minutes the pain drained away, knots dissolving under Matthew’s touch. His hands were _strong_, and seemed to know exactly where to touch to ease the tension. Clayton found himself relaxing even further, sinking into the mattress as his eyes slipped closed.

“Your hands are magic,” Clayton slurred.

Matthew laughed and smoothed his hands down Clayton’s spine. “Ain’t nothin’ special, just know a few tricks is all.”

“They’re damn good tricks.”

A hum met his ears, then one of Matthew’s hands settled on the wing of one shoulder blade. “How would you feel about me workin’ on your neck? Just the back, just a bit.”

Clayton mulled it over. He was comfortable, and relaxed, and the idea didn’t bring the flood of panic that he’d thought it would. This was so _different_ than being choked out by Bill, and he trusted Matthew.

“Yeah, alright.” A tinge of anxiety kindled in his chest. “Just – go slow?”

Fingers swept his hair to the side, then Matthew’s lips pressed gently against the nape of his neck. The anxiety drained away.

“Of course, darlin’.”

Matthew was careful, touching his neck lightly, massaging out aches that Clayton hadn’t even realized were there. True to his word, he moved slowly and gently, taking his time. Then he moved on, working Clayton’s traps, the caps of his shoulders, his upper arms. He was careful about the lingering bruises still smattered across Clayton’s body, and the healing wound in his shoulder. He was careful about everything, really.

_Don’t know why I expected anything different._

By the time he was finished, Clayton felt like he’d melted into the mattress. He was half-asleep, and more comfortable than he’d been in days, if not weeks.

Matthew’s hands left him, then the bed creaked. Clayton turned his head and peered up through blurry eyes to see Matthew settling beside him, a soft look on his face. He reached out and brushed Clayton’s hair away from his face.

“Go to sleep, love. We’ve got time.”

Clayton hummed in agreement, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The Second Week

* * *

“You sure this ain’t gonna hurt your shoulder? When you tried last week it didn’t go so well.”

Clayton shrugged. “I’ll stop if it does. Might as well try though. ‘Sides, Arabella says I need to be moving my arm more, and using my hand too.”

Miriam squinted skeptically. “Aright. Sit down if you need to, though. It can always wait ‘til I’m done the bread.”

Clayton nodded, then set to work carefully chopping the vegetables Miriam had set aside. It was tricky with one hand, but so was everything; he had to try to do *_something_*. Besides, his broken wrist had healed to the point where holding vegetables carefully in place while he chopped them wasn’t _totally _out of the question. He just had to be careful, and that was fine.

So he chopped, carrots first, carefully scooping the finished slices into the pot Miriam had set out for him on the counter. Next came potatoes, already scrubbed clean, cut into clumsy chunks. Everything was uneven, but that was alright. He was doing something productive, something helpful.

Miriam had reneged on his wheedling to be allowed to do _something_ after too many days spent sitting on her couch while Matthew was out and about, or when they needed a break from each other. Matthew had gotten better about leaving Clayton alone, trusting that he was no longer quite so vulnerable, and now that his anxiety had faded enough to not make the panic spark anytime he was left alone.

He wasn’t here every day; just on the ones where he woke up still sweating from the nightmares, or when he felt the itch of boredom and immobility settle in his chest, making him snappy. On the days when he didn’t feel alright with being alone, or didn’t feel safe. Today had been one of the former; and while the ghost of the nightmare had fled already, he’d nodded agreeably when Matthew had quietly suggested he spend the day with Miriam, instead of trying to help Matthew in the church. And besides - he enjoyed it, spending time with Miriam, especially now that her hyper-protectiveness had quieted down a notch, easing as his bruises faded away.

Miriam had settled in at her kitchen table, measuring flour and sugar, salt and butter. The yeast was proofing in a bowl of water and sugar, already filling the kitchen with its scent. It reminded him of many years ago, sitting in his mama’s kitchen, kneading the dough with clumsy hands while his mama guided him.

She’d had strong hands. Miriam did, too.

He held up an onion, turning around. “Mind peelin’ this before you start kneadin’ that dough?”

Miriam took it and the knife, removing the skin with a few deft peels, then handing it back. By the look on her face, he knew a question was coming. “How are you and Matthew gettin’ along, sugar?”

“Fine.” Her silence was heavy, so he amended his answer, rolling his eyes at her raised eyebrow. “Better than fine. Don’t pretend like you don’t know that, Miriam.”

She laughed, turning back to her dough. “I know, it’s just good to hear it from the source. I can’t help but be nosy, you know that.”

Clayton turned back to the cutting board, and started on the onion, trying to keep it in place before it rolled away on him. “He’s good to me. Real good. I hope I’m good to him, too.”

“You are, sugar. Matthew… he looks happy, these days.”

A warm glow filled Clayton’s chest at her words. If he could make Matthew happy, even with all the baggage he brought… well, that would be enough.

Miriam continued. “You do, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”

Clayton looked over his shoulder again. Her eyes were soft, and her smile even more so. He swallowed, nodded, turned back to his cutting. “I think I am. Happy, that is.”

“Good. So when can we expect the wedding?”

His knife slipped on the onion, sending it rolling down the counter. He scowled at it, then at his knife, then back over his shoulder at Miriam. She was grinning.

“Say, how’s your courtship of Arabella going?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well played, Mister Sharpe.” He faced his soup once more, sure that she was done. The sounds of chopping and kneading filled the room. Then, Miriam’s voice, cautiously glad. He was sure that if he looked at her she’d have a smile on her face, the private one that she tried to hide when she was especially pleased. “It’s going as well as these things can, I suppose.”

He smiled. “Good.”

* * *

When all the vegetables were chopped, Miriam shooed him out of the kitchen and into her sitting room to “give that arm and that head a rest.” He went willingly; he’d been learning his limits, over the last few weeks, finding the boundaries of when he could push through and be fine, or when it would lead to more pain than he wanted to deal with. Miriam and Matthew were learning too, when to push and when to give, when to leave him be. It wasn’t perfect, but they were finding a balance. And that was good enough; it was more than he could’ve hoped for, really.

Later that evening the rest of the family gathered for dinner, piling in Miriam’s little home and making it bright and full with teasing and laughter. He was slipping into the kitchen when he spied Arabella and Miriam standing together at the counter, piling thick slices of bread into a basket and ladling soup into bowls. Miriam said something, too quiet for him to hear, and Arabella looked at her, face so openly fond that he stilled, waiting in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. Miriam’s hand brushed Arabella’s on the counter, and Arabella leaned into her space.

He bit back a smile, and slipped back out of the doorway.

_They’ll tell us, when they’re ready. _

* * *

The Third Week

* * *

“We should get up,” Matthew mumbled against Clayton’s chest. He was sprawled on top of him, head pillowed carefully on Clayton’s collarbone, arm curled around his ribs, legs tangled together. Clayton’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders, splint balanced carefully on his back. His ribs had healed enough that this wasn’t painful, if they positioned things right, if they were careful. Clayton couldn’t deny being glad for it; he loved the weight of Matthew curled up on top of him, the simple press of skin against skin.

Clayton ran his fingers slowly down Matthew’s spine, relishing the warmth of his skin. “Or we could stay,” he said softly. “Ain’t got anywhere to be this morning.”

Matthew yawned, then snuffled closer. “I was gonna make that nice stew you like for dinner. It takes a long time to cook.”

“That’s alright. Can always make it tomorrow, and go to the Gem tonight.”

“Yeah?”

Clayton leaned his head down and kissed the top of Matthew’s head. “Yeah, darlin’. Think we deserve a lay-in every now and then, don’t you?”

Matthew smiled against his skin, soft lips smudging a kiss on his chest in return. “We certainly do.”

* * *

The Fourth Week

* * *

“Matthew, _please_ –“

Matthew’s fingers scissored, stretching him slowly. “Patience, darlin’. All in good time.”

Clayton swore, arching back onto Matthew’s hand. “I’ve _been_ patient. Been patient for four goddamn _weeks._”

Teeth nipped at his shoulder, the spark of pain quickly soothed by a hot tongue. Matthew’s fingers twisted inside him, pressing deeper. “Then you can wait a few minutes longer.”

Clayton cursed again, groping behind him, hand landing on Matthew’s arm. He was lying on his side, Matthew pressed up close behind him, working him open. He’d been dying for this for so fucking long, and now that it was finally here, well. Matthew was taking his sweet time prepping him. More than necessary, that was for damn sure. The sting of pain from the first press of Matthew’s fingers inside of him had long ago faded into something good, something _better_ than good.

He’d asked Matthew to fuck him weeks ago, but Matthew had pressed a hand to his ribs and one to his hip, then shaken his head at Clayton’s flinch.

“We’ll wait until you’re not hurtin’ so bad, darlin’,” he’d said, then kissed the scowl off Clayton’s lips. “When I fuck you – and I _will_ fuck you, don’t you worry about that – I want it to be good. And while you’re hurtin’ this bad, it ain’t gonna be good for either of us.”

Clayton had grumbled but agreed. He couldn’t deny that the anticipation had been its own sort of thrill, building between them into something sweet and strong.

That wasn’t to say that they weren’t touching each other. No, they’d still found plenty of ways to make good use of their time. Matthew, he’d discovered, had a bit of an oral fixation, and loved laying Clayton out and sucking him off. In making Clayton come from all sorts of ways, really. With his mouth, with his hands, with both their cocks sliding together in his grip. On one memorable occasion, he’d pulled Clayton to carefully straddle his lap, then worked both their cocks together until Clayton was begging for release.

The week prior, Matthew had finally deemed Clayton healed enough for him to fuck Matthew; or rather, for Matthew to ride his cock, slow and careful-like, Clayton spread out below him on the bed. He’d be remembering the sound of Matthew’s moans and the feel of his hand wrapping around Clayton’s as they fisted Matthew’s cock together for a long time. Matthew had felt so goddamn _good_ on his cock, tight and hot as he rocked both of them towards completion. And the look on his face, mouth hanging open, eyes closed, sweat dripping from his brow. He was gorgeous, and Clayton had tried to sear the memory into his brain, to keep hold of it. 

But now, _now_ Matthew was finally going to fuck him – something he’d been aching for since that first time Matthew had sucked his cock. The lacerations on his wrists had finally healed enough that his splint had been replaced by a proper plaster cast, one that Doc Ashby felt was wise, even if it was only on for a few weeks. So Clayton had gone to Matthew this morning and pressed him against the counter, nipping at his jaw.

“C’mon,” he’d said, running a hand down Matthew’s side. “My ribs are better, my wrist is in a proper cast, and my head ain’t hurt today at all. Would you just fuck me proper already?”

The look Matthew had leveled him was so heated, his cock had been hard in seconds. He’d dragged Clayton into the bedroom, then laid him out; and here they were now, Matthew three-fingers deep in his ass, Clayton begging him for more. He wasn’t one to deny that he loved having a cock up his ass, and with Matthew… it felt like it would be something special.

_At least it will be, if he ever stops taking his sweet time. _

“Come on, preacher, I ain’t gonna break.” He sounded breathless even to his own ears. It had just been so fucking _long_ since he’d been fucked, and just the press of Matthew’s thick fingers inside him had him dripping pre-come onto the mattress, cock hard and aching. “I’m ready, c’mon –“

“Hush. All in good time.” Matthew’s fingers probed deeper, twisting and pressing, searching for –

“_There._” Clayton’s hips bucked as Matthew’s fingers nudged his prostrate, sending sparks straight to his cock. “Holy _fuck_, Matty –“

Matthew chuckled, then pressed a kiss to Clayton’s shoulder. He kept working Clayton’s prostate, wringing another groan from his lips. “You like that, huh.”

“Like it ain’t obvious.”

It _was_ obvious. His hips were rocking back best they could with each easy press of Matthew’s fingers inside him, and his cock was hard and dripping, bobbing as Matthew finger-fucked him open. Matthew grinned against his shoulder.

“Just like hearin’ it anyway.” The pads of his fingers pressed against Clayton’s prostrate again, rubbing slowly against the bundle of nerves. Clayton gasped, shuddering on the bed, assaulted by the pleasure rocketing through him. 

“Jesus Christ Matty –“ his grip on Matthew’s arm tightened. It was hard to form words, hard to focus on anything other than the heat of Matthew plastered along his back and the drag of his fingertips against that spot inside him, and the ecstasy sparking through his body, building quick and fast. “I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.”

“And that would be bad how?”

“I wanna come on your cock,” Clayton gasped, fighting not to orgasm then and there. “Not your goddamn fingers.”

Matthew groaned, his forehead rocking pressing against Clayton’s shoulder. “I won’t say no to that.” His fingers slid from Clayton slowly, knuckles dragging against his rim. “You can come on my fingers another time, then.”

“Promises, promises.”

Matthew huffed a laugh, then shifted, the heat of his body disappearing as he rummaged for a cloth to wipe his hands. Clayton closed his eyes, breathed, tried to bring the fire under his skin back down to a simmer. They hadn’t even been fucking that long and already Matthew knew _exactly _what he liked, and how to make him feel better than any other partner he’d been with. He was just so goddamn invested in learning everything he could about Clayton’s body, or so he’d said. Clayton was inclined to believe him; he felt the same way, and looked forward to the day when he could use both hands with ease.

Matthew rolled back into place, lips brushing under Clayton’s ear in a tender kiss. Clayton heard the sound of his fist moving on his cock, no doubt slicking himself. He hitched his leg forward, opening himself up, smiling at the moan Matthew gave at the sight. The broad head of Matthew’s cock bumped against his ass cheek, dragging down to settle against his rim, rubbing back and forth just slightly.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Matthew said, sounding a little breathless. Clayton couldn’t blame him.

Then Matthew’s cock was pressing inside him, stretching him so goddamn wide. Matthew had prepped him well, but he still felt _huge,_ still sent twinges of pain twining with the pleasure. Blood rushed in Clayton’s ears, his breath coming heavy as he clutched the bedsheets in front of him. He hadn’t been fucked in so goddamn long.

Matthew stopped, panting against Clayton’s shoulder as he bottomed out. Clayton swore he could feel Matthew in his throat, he was so big, and so goddamn deep inside him. “God, you feel good.”

Clayton could only keen in response, clenching down on Matthew’s cock, thick and hot in his ass. Matthew’s hand smoothed up and down Clayton’s ribs, only a little desperately, moaning against Clayton’s skin. But he waited, holding still until the tension bled from Clayton, until the burn shifted into something sweet and hot, until he pressed his hips back and ground out for Matthew to move. Then his hand slid from Clayton’s ribs, up to his chest, anchoring them together as he started to fuck Clayton.

Slowly, slowly, and too goddamn gentle. Clayton groaned, arching into Matthew’s hand on his chest. “I ain’t gonna break,” he said, for the second time that evening. “Come on Matty, _please_ –“

Matthew pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss against his shoulder, dragging his teeth along Clayton’s skin. His pace shifted, not going any faster but going deeper, longer strokes, purposeful and intense. “Let me savour you, Clay.”

Clayton shivered at his words, the tone deep, promising, matched by the heaviness of his hands and the slow drag of his cock against Clayton’s prostate. He stopped complaining after that. Not that he’d have had the words to do so even if he wanted – the ecstasy built quickly, stealing his thoughts and words until he was too far gone. He’d _been_ too far gone for a while, now, and Matthew kept pushing him higher and higher, hand trailing across Clayton’s chest, mouth gasping in his ear, cock pistoning in and out of him, wringing noise after noise from Clayton’s lips.

“Matthew –“ he groaned, as the heat spiraled higher and higher, sparks lighting behind his eyes. “I can’t – I’m gonna –“

“That’s it,” Matthew’s voice rumbled over him. His hand slid down Clayton’s front, nails scraping lightly against his skin, wringing another groan from his lips. Clayton bucked as Matthew’s hand wrapped around his cock, thumbing over the head, using the pre-come dripping down his cock to slick him up. His hand was calloused and hot and so goddamn _big_. Matthew shifted, and Clayton moved instinctively to meet him, craning his neck back as Matthew’s mouth found his, the kiss hard, claiming him thoroughly. The hand on his cock sped up, Matthew’s cock moving faster too, fucking him harder, nailing his prostate with every stroke. The euphoria that had been building crested, taking over, dragging him under.

Clayton came, groaning into Matthew’s mouth and spilling over his hand, clenching down on his cock as all his muscles tensed, shuddering through the orgasm. Matthew keened, rhythm stuttering, fucking deeper once, twice, three times before falling still, shaking against Clayton’s back.

Matthew broke the kiss, resting his forehead on Clayton’s shoulder and panting against his skin. He let go of Clayton’s softening cock, wiping his come-covered hand on the bedsheets, then ran his still sticky hand up and down Clayton’s ribs.

“You alright?” Matthew asked, voice breathless. “Was that okay?”

Clayton shifted, catching his hand and twining their fingers together, pulling it up to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Darlin’, that was amazing.” He snuggled back, letting Matthew’s arm curl around him, keeping them pressed close together. “Next time, I’m ridin’ you.”

Matthew’s cock twitched in Clayton’s ass. “I ain’t opposed to that.” He yawned. “We got time; we can do whatever you want.”

Clayton’s heart swelled, and he bit back a smile. “Yeah?”

Matthew hummed, pressed a sloppy kiss to Clayton’s jaw. “Yeah.”

* * *

The Fifth Week

* * *

“Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

Clayton’s cards scattered across the table as his hand cramped, dropping them everywhere. He scowled at his plastered arm, and set about scooping them up with the other hand. He’d been trying to use the hand of his broken wrist as much as he could lately, with things like this, things that didn’t put weight on it. It had been supplemented with stretches and various small movements that Arabella and Doc Ashby had instructed him to do each day. ‘Exercises,’ she called them. Also known as ‘move your damn hand, Sharpe.’ He kind of hated them, but he hated the idea of being incapable of wielding his gun in his left hand even more, so he did them day and night, and supplemented the movements with holding things like cards in between.

“You need a hand there, Clay?” Aly asked casually. “I’d be happy to help you hold your cards, if’n you want.”

He had a good poker face, matched only by Miriam; Arabella, on the other hand, was hiding a smile behind her cards, and Matthew was failing to hide a look of dismay at the cards in his hand. 

“Fuck off Fogg, you damn cheater.” Clayton glared at Arabella, who was opening her mouth. “Not you, Arabella, you’re even worse. Tryin’ to take advantage of an injured man.”

“Clayton!” Arabella plastered a shocked look on her face. “I would _never_ –“

Clayton flipped her the finger, then set about re-arranging his cards in his left hand. “I am just fuckin’ fine without your help.”

Matthew watched him carefully. “Maybe give your hand a break, Clay? If it’s crampin’.”

Clayton grumbled, but set his hand so it was face-down on the table, rather than arranged carefully in his bad hand. “Fine, fine.” He mock-glared at Arabella and Aly. “See, at least one of y’all knows how to help without fuckin’ cheatin’.”

Arabella grinned cheekily. “You love us and our cheatin’ ways.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes, but he let a hint of a smile play on his lips. He did love them, after all; there was no point trying to deny it any longer.

He ignored Miriam’s proud smile, and Matthew’s soft one, and kicked his partner lightly under the table. “C’mon, Matty, you foldin’ or what? I know you got a shit hand.”

Matthew groaned, setting his hand face-down on the table and putting his head in his hands. “How do you know _every_ time?”

Clayton grinned as the table burst out laughing. “Ain’t my fault you got a shit poker face.”

“Now Clay, why don’t you let Matthew hold your cards for you?” Arabella said slyly. “Since he’d foldin’ and all…”

Clayton snorted. “And have his shit poker face give my hand away too?” He let his foot rest against Matthew’s and winked. Matthew rolled his eyes, but his pout still shifted into a soft smile. “Sorry, darlin’. I aim to walk away with that slip of paper promisin’ a batch of Miriam’s cornbread in my pocket.”

“Over my dead body,” Arabella said with a fierce grin. “I got some good honey yesterday, and I think it’ll go nicely with some cornbread.”

“We all know that Miriam’ll make you cornbread any damn time you ask,” Aly said drily. “Why don’t you let one of us poor bachelor-types win?”

“Bachelors, my ass,” Arabella muttered, a light blush staining her cheeks. “It’s the principal of the thing, Aloysius.”

Matthew sighed, then stood. “Well, I’ll go get another round, since we’re gonna be here a while.”

The tips of his fingers trailed across Clayton’s shoulders as he passed by. Clayton tried to hide his smile, but when he looked up, the other three were grinning at him. Aly winked, and Clayton reached under the table and kicked him, fighting to keep the blush from his face.

“Fuck off.”

Aly laughed, and picked up his cards. “Alright, alright. Come on now, who’s callin’?”

* * *

The Sixth Week

* * *

“… with mem- memories like these in him, and, more- moreover, given to a cer-tain super- super- _fuck_ that one’s long.“

Matthew tilted his head where it lay on Clayton’s lap, and Clayton shifted the book so he could see.

“Superstitiousness.”

“Jesus, what a mouthful,” Clayton muttered. “Thanks.”

Matthew smiled up at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Anytime.”

It had only taken a week for him to tentatively ask Matthew if he’d be okay if Clayton read to him, for a while; Matthew had beamed at him, a look that Clayton had quickly become used to seeing, and said yes. They read every day, when they could; either Matthew reading to Clayton when Clayton was tired or headachy, or Clayton reading to Matthew in his halting voice, and Matthew lending aid when needed. It was becoming easier, and although he still felt flustered and unsure, he kept doing it. He wanted this, the softness reading to Matthew brought, and the quiet moments curled up in each other’s spaces, listening to each other read. He hadn’t had a lot of softness in his life; he’d be a fool not to treasure it now.

They’d finished Treasure Island within the first week, and moved on to Moby Dick, which was both longer and harder to read, in Clayton’s opinion. He’d grumbled about it at first half-heartedly, until Matthew had looked at him with worried eyes and said he could find them something else.

“Oh no, darlin’, it’s fine.” He’d leaned in and kissed the worried frown off Matthew’s mouth. “Just means I get to bug you for help more often.”

So here they were, Clayton sitting at one end of the couch, Matthew’s tall frame stretched across it. His legs were hanging off the end, hooked over the armrest, and his head was pillowed in Clayton’s lap. Clayton’s casted arm was resting on Matthew’s chest, and one of Matthew’s hands was curled lightly around his fingertips. Even that small bit of contact made Clayton smile.

It was just so goddamn _easy_, with Matthew. There had been bumps along the way, for sure, Clayton’s temper and independent nature and Matthew’s protectiveness butting up against each other. But somehow they made it work, and things always smoothed back out again.

As Clayton looked down at the man in his lap, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was in love. Matthew’s smile turned questioning the longer his gaze lingered, one eyebrow arching in question.

“Alright?”

Clayton fought to keep the flush from his face, caught out in his staring. He leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to Matthew’s forehead. “Yeah, darlin’. Never better.”

* * *

The Seventh Week

* * *

“That’s it? It’s done?”

Doc Ashby nodded, washing his hands in the basin. “Yes. You’ve lost some muscle mass, which is to be expected, and it may take some time to regain your full strength in that hand. But the bone is healed.”

Clayton flexed his hand, looking at the pale skin of his forearm, the clear-cut line where the tan on his fingers shifted abruptly into pasty white. His wrist looked _thin_ in a way he wasn’t used to, gaunt and pasty except for the pink line of scar tissue around his wrist, the remainder from the wounds left by too-tight ropes. He was willing to bet that they’d be there for the rest of his life.

_I can deal with a few scars. _

“Thank you,” he said to the Doc, carefully fixing his sleeve, buttoning it at the wrist for the first time in over six weeks. His arm felt oddly light, devoid of the weight of the cast. “Your assistance has been appreciated.”

Doc Ashby eyed him, then nodded. “Yes, well, happy to help.”

Clayton doubted it, but didn’t want to press the issue further. The doctor and he hadn’t exactly warmed up to each other, despite the near weekly visits Matthew had insisted on at the start of this whole shit-show. But he was happy to accept Clayton’s money, and despite his wariness and dislike of Clayton, he did good work. Still, he’d be trying to keep Arabella as his medical care as much as he could.

He’d thought about bringing her today. Once she realized he’d gotten the cast removed without her, he had no doubt that she’d be pissed. She liked learning new things, and had tried to be present for every appointment he’d had with the Doc. But for some reason, he’d felt the need to go alone, to do this one last thing by himself. He hadn’t even told Matthew where he was going.

_At least now I’ve got someone to come home to. _

“Right. Well. Be seein’ you, Doc.” 

* * *

The streets were quieter than usual as Clayton walked back to the parsonage. The heat of the day was fading, the shadows stretching longer on the streets. Dusk came sooner and sooner each day, and Clayton wondered if they were nearly free of the summer sun. He liked the fall, the cooling days, the changing leaves. He wondered if Miriam would help him bake apple pies.

The walk gave him time to think, and more importantly, to muster up courage. Today felt like the end, like the closure he’d been waiting for. The cast, in a symbolic sort of way, signified an end to the healing, and to the whole goddamn affair of his abduction. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he wouldn’t carry scars, or that he wouldn’t still be impacted by it; he still had nightmares, sometimes, just as he still had days where eating didn’t come easy, or where he didn’t quite feel safe being alone, or where the panic bubbled up hot and fast; but they were few and far between, now. But the physical healing, at least, was over.

He felt _light_. And that, for now, was a beautiful thing.

* * *

“I’m home,” he called as he slipped in through the front door, toeing off his boots and slinging his hat over the nearest coat hook.

“In the kitchen!”

As he followed Matthew’s voice, he wondered if he should be nervous. They hadn’t talked about what would happen, after he was done healing; he’d gotten the feeling that Matthew either hadn’t thought about it, or was waiting patiently for Clayton to make up his mind about what he wanted.

That, in and of itself, was what dissipated the anxiety before it could even form. There was no pressure, here.

Matthew looked over his shoulder as Clayton entered, smiling. “Hey, darlin’. Where’ve you been? I didn’t know you were goin’ out today.”

Clayton smiled, shrugged. “Had an appointment with the Doc.”

Matthew turned, eyebrow raised. Clayton grinned and held up his left arm, free of the cast.

Matthew whooped, throwing his arms up in the air. He darted forward to scoop Clayton into his arms, lifting him up and twirling him around. Clayton clung to his shoulders, laughing and hugging him back, letting the world blur around them.

Matthew set him down and kissed him, grinning against his lips. “Well this, this is a night to celebrate. You shoulda told me, we could’ve gone to the Gem, or had the others over –“

“Nah,” Clayton shook his head. “Not tonight. I was…” his words trailed off.

Matthew shuffled back, leaning against the counter and giving him space. When he’d learned that space often helped Clayton get his words out, he didn’t know, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

“I was hopin’ it could just be you and me. Tonight. We can celebrate with them tomorrow.”

Matthew nodded, a soft smile on his face. “Of course, darlin’. That’s just fine.”

“And… I wanted to say thank you. For takin’ care of me, for lettin’ me stay with you. I know you didn’t have to, but I’m eternally grateful.”

“There’s no need to thank me. You’d have done the same.” Matthew winked. “And it worked out alright for us, didn’t it?”

Clayton smiled. “It did, yeah. I… wanted to ask you somethin’.”

“Alright,” Matthew said slowly, one eyebrow raised in question. “You can ask me anything, you know that.”

Clayton nodded. He looked at the floor, then at Matthew. “It’s… it’s about me, and you, and us. We ain’t talked at all, about what happens next. With us. With me bein’ here.”

The shadow of a frown crossed Matthew’s face. “What do you want to happen?” he asked carefully, like Clayton was liable to spook. And oh, that wouldn’t do at all.

“I was wonderin’ if you’d be alright with me stayin’,” Clayton said quietly. “Even though I’m healed up and all.” He swallowed, ran a hand through his hair. “I know you brought me here at first to, to take care for me, and I can go if you want me to, I can get a room back at the hotel but…”

The look on Matthew’s face had turned hopeful, and Clayton drank it in.

_God, you’re amazing._

“That ain’t been the main reason I stayed, and I don’t think it’s the reason you let me.” He stepped closer, reaching out to brush his fingers against Matthew’s hand in a silent invitation. Matthew turned his palm over, let Clayton slide their hands together. “I love you. I have for a while. And I’d like to stay, if you’ll have me.”

Matthew squeezed his hand, pulling Clayton in the last step and cupping his cheek with one big hand. He was smiling, so big it had to hurt, eyes bright. He started to say something, failed, and finally kissed Clayton, soft and deep, full of meaning.

“Of _course_ you can stay,” he whispered when they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together. “God, how could you think - yes, yes, a thousand times yes. I want you here, with me, for – for as long as you’ll stay.”

Clayton wondered if he had meant to say forever. He was pretty sure he would’ve said yes.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” Clayton whispered, clutching Matthew’s hand like it was a lifeline. “But I’m yours. I’m yours, and I promise I won’t be goin’ anywhere, not unless you ask me to.”

Matthew kissed him again, and again, and again. And Clayton let him, meeting him kiss for kiss, drunk off of love and Matthew and everything good about this place, this life he’d somehow stumbled into.

“I love you too,” Matthew whispered as he broke the kiss again, as he wrapped Clayton up in his arms. “I’ve loved you since the day we found you and brought you back home. Earlier, even.”

Clayton’s heart sang. He looped his arm around Matthew’s shoulders, keeping him close. There was something so safe about being here, in Matthew’s arms. “Thanks for waitin’ for me to catch up,” he said, tucking his face into Matthew’s neck. “I’ve been told that I’m a bit slow on the uptake.”

Matthew laughed and hugged him impossibly closer. “Darlin’, you can go as slow as you goddamn well need. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“I ain’t either,” Clayton promised. He knew that it would be one of many that would follow, and for the first time in a long time, he was alright with that. A promise meant trust. A promise meant acceptance, and permanency, and that they would both work to keep this good, to keep each other whole. “I love you, so damn much.”

They stayed like that for a long time, Matthew hugging Clayton to him, Clayton burying himself in his arms. Finally, Matthew’s lips smudged against his temple.

“Help me finish dinner?”

Clayton smiled, pulled back to look at Matthew’s face. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Always, love.”

As they settled in beside each other at the counter, Matthew handing him carrots to chop, Clayton knew with certainty that this was it, that he’d found his place, his person. And he was just sappy enough to hope that it could be his forever. Whatever came next, whether good or bad, pain or joy; they would weather it together.

_Never thought I’d find peace here; never thought I’d find a home. _

Matthew’s elbow nudged his, and when he looked over, he was smiling, eyes so full of love it hurt. Clayton nudged him back, let his own joy shine through.

_How did I get so damned lucky?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah that's it!! It's done!!!! Thanks so much for sticking around <3 When I started this, I had no intentions of having it be over 80,000 words, but, well, here we are. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have. 
> 
> Thanks again for your words of support and kudos and bookmarks, they've helped keep me going. Much love to all of you <3


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